


Where There's a Witcher

by ghostinthelibrary



Series: Where There's a Witcher [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Jaskier won't get off his damn lawn, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt is a grumpy old man at heart, Idiots in Love, M/M, Monster of the Week, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: Jaskier is a twentysomething recently unemployed journalist and amateur musician looking for his big break. So when he’s saved from the jaws of a wyvern by the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia, he comes up with a brilliant idea: he’ll follow the Witcher around and sing about their exploits. He’ll gain fame and fortune and Geralt will get a much needed image rehab. Everyone wins.Unless Jaskier goes and falls in love like an idiot.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Where There's a Witcher [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604140
Comments: 1073
Kudos: 2982





	1. Of Wyverns and Witchers

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Там, где ведьмак.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562287) by [SittZubeida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittZubeida/pseuds/SittZubeida)



> This is the first fic I've written in many years and my first on AO3, so please bear with me if there are any formatting issues.  
> I've only ever seen the Witcher TV show (I'm waiting for the books to come in at my library) so all places, characters, and creatures are based off the TV show and my brief perusal of the Witcher wiki. I'm making up the geography as I go.  
> I hope this is as fun to read as it has been to write!
> 
> ETA 6/30/20: Thank you to Terresdebrume for the beautiful cover image for this fic! Cover images for the whole series can be found at https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/terresdebrume/622249613697662977

Jaskier has lost plenty of jobs in his twenty-five years. Some would say that Jaskier is better at losing jobs than he has been at any career he’s ever tried. But there’s nothing quite like the sting of finding out that the magazine where he’s been working for six months shuttered overnight and everyone has been laid off. And after he stayed up all night working to meet a deadline too.

“What am I going to do?” He sits on the tiny balcony of his apartment, feet propped up on the railing. It’s a miserably hot day in Posada and his shirt clings to him with sweat.

“You’ll be able to find another job,” Ciri says sweetly from the next balcony over. Some would say it’s sad that Jaskier’s closest friend is his next door neighbor’s fourteen year old granddaughter. Those people are probably right, but Jaskier loves the kid like the little sister he never had.

“I’m terrible at getting jobs, Ciri.”

“You’re terrible at keeping jobs. You’re not terrible at getting them.”

Jaskier snorts. “Fair enough.”

“What about your music? You could just do that for a while.”

“I’m not the starving artist type.”

“So you prefer to be a starving journalist?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes up at the blue sky. It’s deeply upsetting to be outsmarted by someone still in braces. “I have a gig tonight.”

“That’s exciting!”

Jaskier tries for an enthusiastic smile. The gig is at a dive bar on the outskirts of town on a Monday night, so there will probably be five people there. But who knows, maybe one of those five people will be a talent scout.

“Ciri, you need to close the door when you’re out here or you’re going to let all the bugs in.” Ciri’s grandmother, Calanthe, sticks her head out the door, long dark brown braid swinging around her shoulders. “Jaskier, you’re home early.”

“Jaskier got fired,” Ciri says before he can answer.

Calanthe blinks. “Again?”

“I did not get fired,” Jaskier says. “The magazine folded and everyone lost their jobs.”

“No worries, kid, you’ll find something,” Calanthe says. “You’re an expert at job hunting by now.”

“Don’t rub it in.” Jaskier groans. 

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” she asks.

Jaskier eyes her dubiously. “Are you cooking?”

“Gods, no. We’re ordering takeout.”

That’s slightly more tempting, but then he remembers his plans. “Sorry, I have a gig tonight.”

“Then come over tomorrow,” she says. “And be careful tonight. There was a wyvern attack nearby last night.”

Jaskier sighs. Had he still had his job, a wyvern attack would have made for a great story.

***

The gig goes about as well as Jaskier expects. The handful of people in attendance mostly ignore his singing, but no one throws anything at him or heckles him. He gets enough money in his tip jar to buy himself a burger and a beer. He even gets the handsome bartender’s number, which is an unexpected bonus. By the time he leaves, some of the sting of losing his job has eased a bit.

He’s a bit too buzzed to drive and it’s a beautiful night, so he decides to walk the two miles back to his apartment. He sings to himself as he goes. He’ll start sending out resumes tomorrow morning, he decides as he strolls down the side of the road, his guitar strapped to his back. Maybe he’ll look into becoming a bartender. Most of that job is being good-looking and friendly, right? Jaskier has never had trouble with either of those things. Or maybe Ciri is right; maybe he should start focusing on his music. It’s the one thing that he’s always been good at, the one thing that has always made him happy.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t immediately register the growl behind him.

Jaskier stops in his tracks. Please let it be a dog, he thinks. Please let it be a dog. Please, please, please.

He turns slowly, heart hammering in his throat.

It isn’t a dog.

The wyvern is the size of a pony, with long, needle-sharp teeth and ropy limbs that end in clawed feet. Its burning yellow gaze is focused on Jaskier. It growls again and rises onto its back legs, wings unfurling.

He knows that running is useless. He knows that it can fly faster than his two legs can carry him. But logic has been replaced by uncomprehending panic. He takes two stumbling steps backwards, then turns to flee. He makes it three steps before the creature slams into him, sending him sprawling. His chin hits the pavement and he tastes blood. There’s a horrible splintering crunch and the twang of strings breaking as the wyvern bites down on his guitar.

Jaskier scrambles away, leaving the wyvern crouched over broken bits of his guitar. The wyvern recovers from the confusion of finding itself with a mouthful of wood instead of a mouthful of musician and whirls to face him. It moves so quickly that Jaskier doesn’t even register that it’s coming at him until it has him pinned to the ground. Its claws dig through the thin fabric of his hoodie into his skin. Its breath smells like rotten meat.

Jaskier can’t stop a whimper from escaping his lips. He’s about to die alone on the side of the road and the only two people in the world who will miss him are his neighbors. He has no friends, no boyfriend or girlfriend, no family except for the parents who like to pretend that he doesn’t exist. No one will remember him. 

And he’ll never have made anything of himself, just like his father always said.

The wyvern lets out another one of those horrible shrieks and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut. He prays that it will be over fast, that he won’t still be alive and conscious while the creature is ripping his guts out.

And then there’s a new sound of metal whistling through the air and a meaty thwack. Hot, sour blood spills over Jaskier’s face and he splutters and opens his eyes. The wyvern’s body is collapsed on top of him, while its head lays on the ground several feet away. Those yellow eyes stare at him blankly. Jaskier’s breaths come out in ragged sobs as he looks around wildly.

Standing over him, bloody sword in hand, is one of the largest men Jaskier has ever seen in his life. He’s a wall of muscle with shoulder-length white blond hair and the kind of chiseled jaw normally only seen in comic books. His eyes are a solid black, surrounded by dark veins that rob him of any vestiges of humanity.

Jaskier’s savior is a Witcher.

Jaskier opens his mouth, but for the first time in his life, he’s speechless. The Witcher hasn’t sheathed his sword yet and Jaskier isn’t sure if he should be thanking the man or begging for his life. Slowly, the blackness in those eyes retreats, leaving eyes the same yellow as the wyvern’s. The yellow eyes don’t make him look any more human.

The Witcher’s mouth twists. “Are you fucking stupid?”

Jaskier gapes at him. “Excuse me?”

“Are. You. Fucking. Stupid?” the Witcher repeats, slower this time. “A wyvern killed a man not a half mile from here last night, yet you walk alone at night. Unarmed and singing to yourself like some kind of court jester?”

Jaskier makes a sputtering noise. “I didn’t—”

“And now that one of her pups is dead, the mother will be even more dangerous,” the Witcher continues.

“Pup?” Jaskier manages to squeak.

“Of course,” the Witcher says. “This one was too young to be far from its mother. We need to move. Get up.”

“There’s a baby wyvern crushing my ribcage, if you hadn’t noticed.”

The Witcher pushes the wyvern off of Jaskier with his foot, just as a shriek rends the night air. Jaskier hopes the scream covers the small, terrified squeak he lets out.

“And that would be the mother,” the Witcher says. “Come with me. Unless you’d like to find out what a full-grown wyvern looks like.”

“No, thank you.” Jaskier scrambles to his feet. He’s not that much shorter than the Witcher, but he still needs to hurry to keep up with the other man’s long, sure strides. “That was an unusually large baby wyvern, right?”

“Average size for a pup. Maybe a bit scrawny.”

“But when you tell people about this, you’ll tell them that it was the largest you’ve ever seen? Fifty feet long, eyes like flames, teeth as long as swords.”

“Why would I—” The Witcher’s words are cut off by another shriek, this one much louder and much closer. Jaskier’s knees go watery with fear.

“Fuck,” the Witcher grumbles. “There’s no time to get you back to Roach. Stay behind me.”

“Wait—”

The wyvern explodes out of the trees. It is easily four times the size of its pup, all teeth, claws, inky black scales, and blazing eyes. It flies at Jaskier and the Witcher, mouth agape. The Witcher places a hand on Jaskier’s chest and shoves him to the ground. Jaskier doesn’t even protest the indignity of being manhandled. He presses his back against the nearest tree and watches as the wyvern dives at the Witcher. The Witcher drops to the ground and rolls, narrowly avoiding the creature’s teeth and claws.

Jaskier watches, frozen in stunned horror, as the Witcher and the wyvern battle. It should not be an even match, not with the sheer size of the wyvern. But the Witcher holds his own, forcing the wyvern back with his sword. He catches the beast in the face and it lets out another scream. Its thrashing tail comes dangerously close to Jaskier and he wonders if the stories he’s heard about the poisonous spikes on a wyvern’s tail are true. He doesn’t want to stick around to find out. Using the tree to pull himself to his feet (his knees still feel like jelly), he turns to run.

“Don’t run!” he hears the Witcher shout behind him, but now that he’s started, Jaskier can’t stop his feet from moving.

There’s the flapping of wings behind him and then Jaskier is airborne, talons digging into his sides. The world tilts and spins around him as he thrashes uselessly. Someone is making a horrible, high-pitched noise and he realizes it’s his own screaming. He feels hot breath on the back of his neck and he knows that this is it--the wyvern is about to bite his head off and he’s going to die.

And then the wyvern lets go of him. Jaskier feels like it carried him a hundred feet in the air, but he only falls a few feet to the ground. The trees around him rattle as the wyvern crashes down next to him. Its tail falls across Jaskier’s legs and he drags himself away, wheezing. The Witcher’s sword sticks out of one of the wyvern’s glassy eyes.

He hasn’t had time to catch his breath when a large hand seizes him by the upper arm and drags him to his feet. He finds himself staring directly into the Witcher’s yellow eyes.

“I told you to stay behind me,” the Witcher growls. His voice is odd--low and hoarse--and at any other time, Jaskier would be very much into it. Right now, the derisive note to it makes him bristle.

“I was just trying to get farther behind you.” His own voice is shaking too much to properly convey sarcasm.

“And you nearly got yourself killed,” the Witcher says. “Come on. Roach is nearby.”

The Witcher steers Jaskier away. It doesn’t occur to Jaskier that he should probably ask where they’re going or who Roach is until they’re back on the road. Jaskier averts his eyes from the shattered remains of his poor guitar. The Witcher doesn’t speak until they reach a boxy brown car parked on the side of the road. It looks like something Jaskier’s grandfather would drive, a sedan built like a tank. The paint job is so spotless, he would think it was brand new, if he wasn’t certain that they stopped manufacturing this car before he was born.

“This is Roach?” Jaskier asks.

The Witcher nods.

“You named your car Roach?”

The Witcher stares at him flatly. “Where were you heading?”

“Oh.” Jaskier realizes what the Witcher intends and shies away from his grasp. “No, no thank you. I can walk. It’s only a mile or so—”

“Wyverns almost always give birth to two pups at a time.”

“Maple Street. Not far from here.” Jaskier slides into the passenger seat. The leather seats are just as spotless as the exterior and he winces at the thought of the wyvern blood covering him. “I’m Jaskier, by the way.”

“Hm.”

“This is the part where you introduce yourself.”

The Witcher doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Geralt.”

It takes a moment for the name to sink in. “Of Rivia?”

“I’ve never met another Geralt.”

“The Butcher of Blaviken?” Suddenly, the car seems far too small. Like most young children, he had a phase where he was obsessed with Witchers. He read everything he could find on the topic. Most Witchers are long dead, but Geralt of Rivia is by far the most infamous, best known for the massacre that left dozens of humans dead.

“Just Geralt is fine,” the Witcher says.

“But you’re at least four hundred years old!” Jaskier bursts out, then winces when he remembers that the man has a sword and a penchant for using it on civilians.

“Give or take a century,” Geralt says. He looks no older than his mid-thirties, with only the faintest of lines on his forehead and around his eyes.

“That explains the car.”

Jaskier’s father once told him that his smart mouth would get him in trouble one day. He remembers those warnings as the Witcher turns an incredulous look on him. “What is wrong with Roach?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier says, a little squeakier than he would like. “It’s a fine car. My grandfather had one just like it.”

“Your grandfather had excellent taste, which he clearly didn’t pass on to his grandchild.”

Jaskier can only make an indignant squawking noise. The polka dot button up shirt and jeans he’s wearing were very fashionable, before he got wyvern blood all over him.

“I saw that piece of shit you drove to the bar,” Geralt says. “That hardly counts as a car.”

Normally, Jaskier would appreciate the rhyme. “Wait, you were at the bar? You saw my set?”

All he gets is a grunt in response.

“Did you follow me?”

“You were walking home alone. You were singing. It was like you wanted to be wyvern food.”

“Did you use me as bait?”

“You made yourself bait. Which one’s yours?”

Jaskier is so indignant that he’s just realizing they’re on his street. “The yellow building on the right.”

Geralt pulls Roach in front of Jaskier’s apartment building. “Get out.”

“Nice to meet you too.” Jaskier reaches for the handle, then hesitates. “Thank you for saving me. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”

“You know what would have happened. Wyverns would be feasting on your entrails right now.”

Jaskier winces. “Thank you for that visual.”

For the first time since they got in the car, the Witcher turns to look at him. “Don’t take any walks alone at night. And if you’re going to, carry a knife.”

Jaskier can’t think of a witty retort, so he clambers out of the car. Before he can get another word in, Geralt pulls away from the curb and is gone.

***

Jaskier has to wash his hair three times before the stink of wyvern blood is entirely gone. Regretfully, he throws out the clothes; he’s pretty sure they would destroy the building’s single functional washing machine. There are four shallow cuts on each of his shoulders and eight deeper ones in his sides from the wyverns’ claws. While he cleans them, he tries not to think of that terrifying moment of being carried away. He tries not to think of what would have happened if the Witcher hadn’t been there, or if he had been slower to come to Jaskier’s aid.

The Witcher's voice seems to echo in his head. "Wyverns would be feasting on your entrails right now."

He shudders and rubs a hand over his stomach to reassure himself that all his entrails are exactly where they’re supposed to be. In the harsh lighting of his bathroom, he looks pale and tired with his brown hair plastered to his forehead and shadows under his blue eyes. The best that can be said for him right now is that he’s alive.

Too restless to even try to sleep, Jaskier goes into his bedroom and sits cross legged on his bed with his laptop in his lap. The blog he started his senior year of college has been mostly untouched since he graduated. The idea was, in his mind, brilliant: serious articles on current events paired with videos of him singing songs about the topic. “It’s something for everyone,” he tried to tell the professor who gave him a B minus on the project, along with a reminder that journalism was a serious business. It was apparently ahead of its time, since he got about ten hits per article, most of which he was pretty sure came from his girlfriend at the time and her mom.

But tonight, he saw a Witcher in action. How often does that happen? Witchers and monsters alike have pretty much died out since the rise of Nilfgaard and the fall of the city states that were too busy squabbling with each other to deal with the monsters themselves.

As Jaskier begins to type, he begins to formulate a tune in his mind.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty…”

***

He doesn’t expect his blog post and “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” to blow up like they do. Within a day, the post has ten times the hits of all his previous posts combined. Within a week, it’s gone viral. The video of him singing is featured on the local news and a morning talk show. There are a couple of remixes of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” posted. The local university’s acapella group covers it. For about two weeks, Jaskier is famous.

But then the world moves on. Rebels in the north blow up a bus. One of the emperor’s cousins narrowly survives an assassination attempt. The corpse of a dragon, the first one spotted in hundreds of years, is found in the mountains. Jaskier’s subsequent blog posts on these subjects get fewer and fewer hits.

But he tries not to let that get him down. He’s gone on three dates with Connor, the bartender he met the night of the wyvern attack, the most dates he’s gone on with anyone since his college girlfriend. He has a couple of job interviews lined up. His current barista gig isn’t the stuff dreams are made of, and he’s sure that his supervisor hates him and is waiting for an excuse to fire him, but it’s a job.

Best of all, he has some awesome looking scars on his side from the wyvern attack. Ladies (and some men) love scars.

Just over a month after the wyvern attack, Jaskier wakes up humming his latest song to himself. He has a date with Connor tonight. He’s taking Ciri to the orthodontist today, since Calanthe has to work, and he’ll take her to get burgers and ice cream afterwards. It’s going to be a good day. He keeps humming as he puts on a pot of coffee and stands in front of the fridge, eating leftover noodles from last night’s takeout.

“So, a friend of humanity, huh?”

Jaskier screams and drops his noodles.

Geralt of Rivia sits on the edge of his futon, so low to the ground that his knees are practically brushing his chest. He looks exactly like he did last time Jaskier saw him, minus the wyvern blood. Jaskier is pretty sure he’s wearing the exact same black leather pants and loose-fitting black shirt. The Witcher looks like he belongs on the cover of one of the romance novels Calanthe reads, chiseled jaw and all.

Normally, having someone who looks like this in his living room wouldn’t be a problem.

“Um, hi,” Jaskier says, because he’s not sure what else to say to someone who he’s pretty sure is here to kill him. He doesn’t think “please, don’t” will do the trick.

The Witcher stands. Gods, he’s large. “I just spent a month on a mountain, searching for a dragon egg.”

“Wait, what?”

Geralt ignores him. “I got back and went to a pub. The girls at the table next to me were watching a video on their… cellular devices.”

Something about the uncomfortable way he says “cellular devices” is oddly endearing. It almost makes him seem human. Jaskier smiles nervously. “You mean their cell phones?”

“Yes, that.” A muscle jumps in the Witcher’s jaw and the smile falls off of Jaskier’s face. “They recognized me. People don’t recognize me.”

“I, um—”

“You need to take the video down. And the article too.”

“Have you seen the video?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think?”

Geralt glowers, which is answer enough.

“Look, I can’t take it down,” Jaskier says. “I mean, I could, but it’s too late. It’s gone viral. People have seen it all over the Continent. A lot of people didn’t realize there are still Witchers around and they’re excited.”

“Do you think it will go viral if I run you through?”

Jaskier takes a step back, bumping his hip painfully on an open cabinet. “Probably. Look, it’s all flattering, right? And people have already moved onto the next big thing. There’s a video of a baby unicorn and a goat who are best friends going around. Want to see?”

“No.”

Jaskier swallows and goes to wipe his palms on his pants, before realizing that he’s still in boxers. Shit. These aren’t even his nice boxers. “Look, I’m sorry. But this could be a good thing.”

Geralt stalks towards him and Jaskier quails. It’s like having a homicidal mountain coming at him. The Witcher must see the look on his face, because he stops on the other side of the counter, resting his palms flat against it, as if to demonstrate the lack of sword in his hands. Jaskier feels the knot of tension in his back relax.

“Hear me out,” Jaskier says, speaking quickly. “Look, Blaviken was what, three hundred years ago? And people still remember you for that. Not for the battles you fought, the monsters you killed, the innocent people you’ve saved. What you need is an image upgrade.”

“An image upgrade,” the Witcher says flatly.

“Yes! What you need is to be a Witcher for modern times. No more skulking in the shadows. No more hiding in the corner at dive bars. No more leather pants when it’s ninety degrees out. Let people see you for the hero you are.”

“I don’t care how people see me.”

“Right, so you broke into my apartment and scared the shit out of me because you don’t care how people see you?”

This time, the Witcher’s silence is more contemplative than menacing. “What do you suggest?”

“Let me follow you around and write about your heroics. Knights used to have bards who followed them around and sang about them, right? It will be the same concept.”

The Witcher snorts. “I’m no knight. And do you know why bards went out of style? Because they were fucking annoying. They got stabbed a lot.”

It’s not exactly a no, so Jaskier presses on. “People will get to see the real you. And they won’t be scared of you anymore, so they may hire you more. You might not like attention, but I bet you like money, right? Think of all the people who probably haven’t hired you over the years because they were too scared of the Butcher of Blaviken.”

“Hm.”

“Let me come on one mission,” Jaskier begs. “One. If I annoy you too much or get in your way, you can stab me or feed me to a drowner. But I think this will work for us. I’ll get some fame and fortune and finally be able to pay off my student loans. And people will stop pissing their pants when you show up in their living room. Not that I--”

“I’ll think about it,” the Witcher says.

Jaskier blinks. It’s more than he was expecting. “Oh, okay.”

“There would be rules about what you’re allowed to write. And what you’re allowed to sing.”

“Of course.”

“If I decide to do this, I’ll get in touch.”

“Just knock next time, okay?” Finally deciding that he’s not about to be murdered, Jaskier turns away. “Want some coffee? I’d offer you some noodles, but…”

The door to his apartment snaps closed. When he turns around, the Witcher is gone.

***

One week later, Jaskier is in the middle of making a complicated caramel-flavored coffee drink when the door of the coffee shop opens and he looks up.

Geralt stands in the doorway, yellow eyes locked on Jaskier.

Jaskier feels a slow smile spread across his face as he starts to sing to himself. "Toss a coin to your witcher..."

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Ciri and Calanthe will have more to do than just being Jaskier's next door neighbors!  
> I will try to update once a week, at the very least. Please let me know what you thought. I hope you all enjoyed!


	2. Of Bruxas and Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their first mission together, Geralt and Jaskier hunt a group of bruxas who have been terrorizing a small town. Or, Geralt hunts. Jaskier just tries not to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos! I'm so glad so many of you enjoyed this goofy little modern AU that's been bouncing around in my head for the last two weeks.
> 
> Right now, I'm planning on 8 chapters, but that may change. These next couple of chapters will be very "monster of the week," with things getting more plotty later on.

“How is it,” Jaskier whines. “That of all the languages on the Continent, not a single one has a word that rhymes with bruxa?”

“Why don’t you wait to see if you survive the night before you start writing a song?” Geralt doesn’t look up from rifling through Roach’s trunk. Jaskier has a terrible suspicion that the Witcher lives in his car, but when he asked Geralt about it, all he got was another infuriating “hm.”

Jaskier doesn’t rise to the bait. “I’m just going to call them vampires.”

“I told you, vampires are a different thing.”

“How are they different? Beautiful women who suck blood.”

“Not all women. And bruxas turn into bats. Vampires don’t.”

Jaskier shudders. “I think vampires will work better in the song for a multitude of reasons.”

“Remember rule number one.”

Jaskier grits his teeth. Geralt has made him go over the rules about a dozen times in the week since he agreed to let Jaskier come on a job with him. “No inaccuracies or exaggerations. You’re really stifling my creativity here, Geralt. ”

“Don’t like it, stay home.”

Jaskier ignores him and holds up two fingers. “Rule number two, you get to vet everything I write before it’s published. Rule number three, no singing on the job. Which is just offensive, by the way. Rule number four, no being brave. Trust me, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“I didn’t think so,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier ignores him. “And rule number five, do everything you say. You say run, I run. You say hide, I hide. You say shut up, I shut up. You say hop on my left foot—”

“I may institute a rule number six. No talking.”

“I’m a journalist. I’m here to collect information on you, learn your story. It’s hard to do that if I can’t talk.”

“I thought you were a barista.”

“Oh no, I lost that job three days ago. I have an interview at a grocery store tomorrow. So don’t keep me out too late, okay?”

The Witcher just stares at him incredulously. Being stared at by a Witcher is an unnerving experience. Jaskier is now almost certain that Geralt won’t stab him or feed him to a monster, but he can’t forget how inhuman the Witcher looked on the night of the wyvern attack with his all-black eyes and blood-splattered face.

“Look.” Jaskier leans against Roach’s hood. At a growl from Geralt, he quickly stands up straight. “Sorry, sorry. Forgot that you love this car more than most people love their dogs. Anyway, I really like being alive. It’s one of my favorite things. So don’t worry, I’m not going to play the hero or get in your way. I’ll probably run screaming for the hills as soon as someone turns into a bat.”

“Running and screaming attracts most monsters. Do I need to add another rule?”

“It’s a figure of speech, Geralt.”

Jaskier is pretty sure the Witcher is too dignified to roll his eyes, but Geralt really looks like he wants to roll his eyes right now. “Let’s go,” the Witcher grunts. “We have a three hour drive ahead of us.”

“Great.” Jaskier happily clambers into the car. Roach doesn’t seem to have AC, but it’s better than standing in the glaring summer sun. “We’re going to need to stop for snacks.”

“No.”

“But—”

“Would you like to yammer about snacks, or would you like to hear about the bruxa?”

“I can do both,” Jaskier says, but quiets down.

“There have been sixteen bruxa killings in Vengerberg since the solstice,” Geralt says. “The mayor has hired me to take care of it. It looks like we’re dealing with a nest.”

“Is that many bruxa killings normal?”

“No. Vampires and bruxa don’t need to kill when they feed. Killing draws attention and they don’t want that. There’s the occasional accidental killing, but these are different. They’re vicious, messy. What are you doing?”

Jaskier freezes in the middle of taking a selfie. “Taking a picture for the blog.”

“Why?”

“Because this is our first mission together! It’s exciting. Come on, smile.”

“No.”

Jaskier smiles his widest grin for the camera and even flashes a thumbs up, knowing it will annoy Geralt. In the background, the Witcher glowers at the road.

“Are you done?” Geralt asks.

“There was no rule against pictures.”

“Not yet.”

Jaskier sighs and lowers the phone. “Remember, my job here is to make you look friendly and approachable.”

“Hm.”

“Okay, maybe not friendly. Approachable?” Jaskier’s phone buzzes with a text and he goes to answer it.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s just Lilly. She was one of my coworkers at the coffee shop. You met her when you stopped by, remember? The one with the pink hair who took your order. Anyway, Connor the bartender has ghosted me, which everyone saw coming, so I’m in need of some rebound. Not that I can really call it rebound when I only went out with the guy three times and only fucked him two and a half times.”

“I will pass my condolences to Lilly when your throat is ripped out by a bruxa because you didn’t listen to me.”

“Oh my gods, fine. Putting the phone away.” Jaskier stashes his phone in his pocket. “Do you have one, by the way? A phone? Might be an easier communication method than you just showing up at my apartment or my work unannounced whenever you want to talk to me.”

“I do not.”

“How do people get in touch with you then?”

“They don’t. I get in touch with them.”

“That’s not—”

“So far, all of the victims have been young men. Most of them have frequented the same bar.”

“And people still go there?”

“There’s only one bar in Vengerberg. You will go inside and order a drink. Only order one. Talk to the locals. Make a spectacle of yourself. You’re good at that. I’ll be watching from the other side of the bar.”

It takes a moment for his words to click into place. “Geralt, are you using me as bait?”

“I can’t use myself as bait. The bruxa will smell that I’m not human.”

“So you’re using me? What happened to rule number four? No being brave?”

“You don’t have to be brave. If the bruxa approaches you, you let her take you outside. The front door, not the back. I’ll be waiting. If she approaches someone else, you sit and enjoy your drink while I take care of it.”

“And what happens if she bites me?”

“It won’t come to that.”

“And if it does?”

“I’ll get to you before she can do any serious damage.”

Jaskier finds that less than reassuring. “And what if you don’t get to me in time?”

“I will.”

“But—”

“I prefer peace and quiet before a battle.”

“Is that your way of telling me to shut up?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier groans and leans his head against the window. “Fine. But Geralt?”

“Yes?”

“Pull over at the next gas station. If I’m about to get eaten by a bruxa, you need to buy me some cheese puffs first.”

***

The parking lot of the Lucky Pint is surprisingly full for the location of numerous bruxa attacks, but Jaskier assumes the call of beer is stronger than the locals’ desire to keep all their blood inside their bodies. Vengerberg is an old farm town that became a factory town and now that the factories have closed down, is only one step above a ghost town. It’s one of the many dying little towns that litter the outskirts of the Continent. Jaskier doubts the locals have much to do besides drink.

Geralt’s brown sedan looks hilariously out of place among the motorcycles and monster trucks. Eyeing the patrons going into the bar, Jaskier realizes that he’s going to look out of place too. Had he known what tonight would entail, he would have invested in some plaid.

“I’ll come inside in twenty minutes,” Geralt says. “It can’t look like we arrived together. If there’s trouble in the meantime, come get me.”

Jaskier swallows. “Now would be a good time to have ear pieces. Though we should probably get you a cell phone before we work our way up to anything more technologically advanced.”

“Stop stalling and get out.”

“Fine, but if I get my throat ripped out, I want a raise.”

“I’m not paying you. We discussed this.”

“Then I really need a raise.”

The Witcher reaches over and pulls the door closed behind Jaskier.

Jaskier taps on the window.

With a look that could freeze lava, Geralt rolls down the window. “What?”

“If I see a bruxa, how will I know what she is?”

“You’ll know.” Geralt rolls the window back up.

“That isn’t helpful!”

The Witcher either doesn’t hear him, or pretends not to. Muttering, Jaskier stalks towards the Lucky Pint. He wishes he didn’t eat that entire bag of cheese puffs on the road; he feels a bit sick. “Talk to the locals, make a spectacle of myself, become bruxa food,” he mutters to himself. “Great, wonderful.”

It’s not hard to make a spectacle of himself. Like he expected, he stands out like a sore thumb in his skinny jeans and pink button-up shirt. He may as well have “city dweller” stamped on his forehead. He’s aware of the contemptuous looks he gets as he makes his way to the bar, but tries to look completely comfortable, like he’s a regular.

Once he has a beer in hand, he looks around the room and tries to decide who looks like they’ll know the most about bruxa attacks. The bartender, a no-nonsense middle aged woman, is a good candidate, but she’s both busy and seemingly immune to his charm. There are a couple of older men playing pool who seem like the types to know everything that goes on in this town. Jaskier is trying to figure out the best way to approach them when a woman slides on the barstool next to him.

“I haven’t seen you here before.” Her voice is soft and musical. Jaskier turns around, heart rate already quickening.

Geralt was right. Jaskier knows immediately that she isn’t human and he can’t figure out how she can hunt without being detected. She’s tall, close to his height, with liquid dark eyes, dark hair, and alabaster skin. It’s the skin that gives her away. There are no freckles, no lines, no dimples, no acne scars. Just smooth, featureless perfection.

Jaskier realizes that he’s been staring too long. Monster or not, she’s stunning. He clears his throat and tries for a charming smile. “I’m just passing through for the night. I’m Jaskier.”

“Ava.” She tilts her head to the side and smiles coyly. “Do you mind if you join you?”

“Of course. Want a drink?”

“I’ll take whatever you’re having.”

He expected her to order red wine, but he supposes that would be too cliche. He waves down the bartender, whose expression softens into sympathy when she looks at him. He wonders how much the locals know about the bruxa attacks and how much they rely on out of towners like him to sate the creatures’ hunger. Jaskier tries to look easy and confident, like this is just another bar and another beautiful woman who he’s going to take home.

“What brings you to Vengerberg?” Ava asks.

“Just heading south to visit my family for the weekend.” The lie comes easily; Jaskier has always been good at lying. Or ‘storytelling,’ as he prefers to call it. “I got tired of driving.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“Posada,” he says, “I just had to stop. Vengerberg is such a...charming...town. You live around here?”

“Just outside of town, with my sisters.”

A tall, reedy man with a truly amazing beard leans against the bar on the other side of Ava and peers at Jaskier with bleary eyes. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Jaskier is sure he would remember that beard anywhere. “I don’t think so.”

“Wait, I know him,” the man’s companion, a shorter, rounder man says. “He’s the ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ kid. My daughter loves that song. She wouldn’t listen to anything else for a week.”

Gods damn it all. “I get that all the time. Just one of those faces, you know?”

“Don’t be shy, kid.” The taller man reaches around Ava to clap Jaskier on the back, almost knocking him over. “I gotta admit, the first time I heard it, I wanted to find you and break your guitar. But it grew on me by the tenth time.”

“Um, thank you?” Jaskier’s eyes dart between Ava and the men. Ava is staring at him with a fierce intensity. He lowers his voice and leans towards her conspiratorially. “I don’t have the heart to tell them they have me mixed up with someone else.”

“I think they know exactly who you are.” Ava slips her arm through Jaskier’s and curls her hand around his upper arm. “Is your Witcher here?”

Her mouth is only inches from his neck. He has to force himself not to shy away. “A Witcher? I thought those didn’t even exist anymore.”

She laughs. “I think this is a conversation we should have outside.”

Jaskier goes cold all over. The last thing he wants to do is go anywhere with the bruxa, but Geralt told him to let her take him outside. “But you haven’t finished your beer.”

Her smile widens, showing too many teeth. “I’m not in the mood for beer.”

“I haven’t finished my beer.”

“You’re going to come outside with me, or I’m going to start killing people. Starting with your two new friends over here.” Ava jerks her head towards the two “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” fans, who have started up a drunken, off-tune rendition.

Stomach knotting, Jaskier slides off the bar stool and follows her outside, trying not to be too obvious as he scans the bar for Geralt. He doesn’t see the Witcher anywhere. Has he even been here for twenty minutes? Is Geralt still out in the car, polishing the paint job or whatever he does before a battle? Does he even realize that Jaskier is in trouble? And if Jaskier screams, will Geralt be the one who comes running, or a hoard of bruxas?

The bruxa shoves him against the side of the building, standing close. Any passerby will probably think they’re locked in a passionate embrace. “Where is he?”

“Look, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not a singer. I can’t carry a note to save my life. See?” He lets out a warble.

“Where is the Witcher?”

“I told you—”

The bruxa seizes him by the throat and presses down on his windpipe. “Do you think I’m a fool?”

“Look,” Jaskier manages to wheeze. “Choking isn’t really my thing, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to go back inside and finish my beer.”

“I don’t think that will be possible, Jackson.”

“It’s Jaskier. Seriously, you’re about to kill me, and you didn’t even bother remembering my name?”

“I’m not going to kill you.”

“Weirdly enough, I don’t believe you.”

“I need the Witcher’s help.”

“Okay, now I definitely don’t believe you.” Where the hell is Geralt? He has to realize that something is wrong by now.

The bruxa doesn’t answer; she turns her gaze away from Jaskier. “Put your sword down and show yourself, Witcher, or I’m going to crush the boy’s throat.”

“What happened to not killing me?” Jaskier squeaks as her grip tightens.

She lifts one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “Let’s put it this way: I won’t kill you unless it’s necessary.”

“What would make it necessary?”

“Your Witcher friend not doing as I say.”

“I’m not his friend.” Geralt appears around the corner, holding a blood-drenched sword. He doesn’t look at Jaskier; his gaze is locked on the bruxa.

The bruxa drags Jaskier between her and Geralt, wrapping one arm around his abdomen and keeping her other hand locked on his throat. “Drop the sword, or I kill him.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps. He can barely breathe.

“I don’t think you will,” Geralt says.

Ava laughs without humor. “Don’t underestimate me, Witcher.”

“I’m not underestimating you.” Casually, Geralt wipes the bloodied blade on his shirtsleeve. “The opposite. If you wanted to kill him, the boy would be dead. The two bruxa I just met wouldn’t have hesitated. They were different than you. Feral. A different nest?”

The bruxa sucks in a breath. Jaskier wonders if she actually has to breathe, or if she’s just doing it for dramatic effect. “Yes. A new nest moved into town two months ago. Their queen--Ariadne--she killed our queen and everyone in our nest who opposed her. It’s just me and my two sisters left.”

“And they’ve been killing the townspeople?”

“Yes. We’ve lived here for decades. Vengerberg is our home. We never kill when we feed; we only take a mouthful here and there. Killings draw attention. They bring people like you here.”

Geralt is silent for a long moment, then he says, “Let him go, and we can talk.”

“He’s the only thing between me and your sword. I’m not a fool.” But her grip on Jaskier loosens slightly.

The Witcher drops his sword to the ground. “Release him, or you’ll see that I don’t need a sword to kill you.”

The bruxa lets Jaskier go. He stumbles away, gasping in sweet lungfuls of air.

Geralt still doesn’t look at him. “Tell me about this new queen. And do it quickly.”

***

“Oh, she stole my blood, she stole my breath, in her eyes, I saw my death,” Jaskier sings to himself, strumming on his guitar. It’s the old one he’s had since high school, not as nice as the one that got eaten by a wyvern, but it does the trick.

“No one stole your blood,” Geralt calls from the bathroom.

“Maybe I would have better material if someone hadn’t made me stay in the car during the final battle.”

“I wasn’t bringing a musician into a nest of twelve hostile bruxas.” Geralt says “musician” like most people would say “telemarketers.”

“Yet I was good enough to use as bait for Ava.”

“You were never in any danger.”

“Really? Because when she started threatening to break my neck, it sure felt like I was.”

“Had she wanted to break your neck, your neck would be broken.”

“Well, that’s comforting.” Jaskier yawns. Outside, dawn is starting to peek over the horizon. It was a long, sleepless night and in only a few hours, he has to go to a job interview. He should go to bed, but he’s too wired from the night’s events.

“Jaskier, come here.”

“I’m in the middle of my creative process here.”

“Please.”

Jaskier has a feeling that the Witcher isn’t the type to say please often. With a sigh, he sets aside his guitar and heads towards the bathroom. “Fine, but I’m going to make you listen to the finished product, whether you…”

He trails off, stunned into silence by the sight of Geralt of Rivia, buck ass naked in his tiny bathtub. The tub is so narrow that Jaskier can barely shower without banging his elbow on the chipped tile wall. Geralt is far too large for it; his knees are practically pulled up to his chest and he has one arm propped up on the wall while the other dangles over the edge. Jaskier can’t figure out where to look. There’s miles of well-muscled back, shoulders, legs, oh gods, arms…

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier makes a strangled noise. “You’re naked.”

The Witcher gives him an incredulous look. “Did you think I would take a bath clothed?”

“I, um…”

Geralt holds up a bottle of chamomile salve. “I have a spot on my back that I can’t reach.”

“And you want me to…”

“As soon as you regain your wits.”

Jaskier drags his gaze away from Geralt’s biceps and blinks. “Uh, yeah, sorry, what do you need?”

“I have a scratch between my shoulder blades.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Jaskier takes the bottle of salve from him, forcing himself not to look down. “I’ll take care of… what the fuck, Geralt.”

The little scratch is a crescent-shaped bite mark, still oozing droplets of blood, in the center of Geralt’s back. It’s accompanied by five deep claw marks stretching from his shoulder to his lower back. Jaskier thinks of the three hour drive from Vengerberg. Geralt must have been in agony the entire time.

“One of the bruxa jumped on my back to try and save his queen,” Geralt says calmly.

“You need a hospital,” Jaskier says. “You need stitches.”

“The salve will do.”

“All the salve is going to do is cover the smell of the inevitable infection.” But Jaskier still begins tentatively massaging it onto Geralt’s back. He’s glad he’s wearing loose-fitting sweatpants. “If you bleed to death in my bathtub, I’m definitely going to lose my security deposit.”

“This won’t be what kills me.”

“Guess it’s hard to kill a Witcher, huh?” Under the fresh wounds, Geralt’s back is a patchwork of scars: old bite marks, slashes, a wide swath of scar tissue that looks like something tried to cleave him in half.

“Harder than it is to kill a human.”

“Looks like lots of things have tried.”

“It’s the nature of the job.”

“So what made you decide to be a Witcher?” Jaskier needs to focus on something other than the warmth of Geralt’s skin. “Couldn’t find any nice jobs in accounting?”

“There was no choice,” Geralt says. “My mother left me at Kaer Morhen when I was a child. It was decided for me.”

“But most of the kids who underwent the Witcher mutations died.”

“They did.”

Jaskier’s gut clenches. He hasn’t seen his parents in years and hasn’t spoken to them in months. He knows that they don’t like or respect him. He’s not entirely sure that they love him. But he knows that wouldn’t do anything to risk his life. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Geralt says. “I would be long dead by now if she hadn’t made the choices she did.”

Jaskier has nothing to say to that.

Geralt turns to look at him. “You did well tonight.”

Jaskier feels heat rising to his face. “I didn’t do much.”

“You didn’t lose your head when alone with a bruxa. You listened to my instructions. I expected you to either be scared off or get yourself killed.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Jaskier realizes he’s run out of back to rub chamomile salve on. Regretfully, he straightens up. “Is that better?”

“Much.”

“Do you need any more?” Jaskier tries not to sound too hopeful.

“No.”

Jaskier starts to turn away, then pauses. “You want to hear the rough draft of my bruxa song?”

“No.”

Jaskier sings it for him anyway.

***

“Can I give you some advice?” Calanthe asks Jaskier the next night as the sit in front of the TV in her living room, Ciri asleep on the couch next to Jaskier and Calanthe’s fluffy gray cat, Mousesack, asleep on his chest. Dinner was over an hour ago, but Jaskier can’t bring himself to leave and disturb Mousesack and Ciri.

Jaskier grins. “Can I stop you?”

“No.”

“Than advise away.”

Calanthe turns down the volume on the old sitcom they’re watching so all Jaskier can hear is the faint trill of the laugh track. “I don’t like this Witcher thing.”

Jaskier isn’t surprised. As he told Ciri the story of the bruxa battle (possibly, maybe exaggerating his own role in it a bit) during dinner, Calanthe didn’t say a word. “You know I talked it up for Ciri, right? He made me stay in the car most of the time.”

“Oh, I know,” Calanthe says. “You’d be dead otherwise.”

“Ouch.”

“Kid, look, you have many things going for you. You’re sweet. You’re smart. You’re a good singer, when you don’t try too hard.”

“What now?”

“But you’re not a warrior. You nearly got killed by a wyvern last month. Most people take that as a sign to not go near any more monsters. And look, I get that you’re at that age where you’re still trying to find yourself. I get it. I made some mistakes too when I was young. Ciri’s grandfather, for one. I just want you to survive to find yourself, and not end up ripped apart by a chimera.”

“I’m not going to get ripped apart by anything. Geralt has a lot of rules in place specifically to keep me alive.”

Calanthe snorts. “You think that the Witcher really cares about keeping you safe?”

Jaskier isn’t used to the contempt lacing her tone. Calanthe can be a bit acerbic, but this is something else. “I mean, I don’t think he’d go into a decade of mourning if I got eaten, but he might at least lose a night or two’s sleep over it.”

“You need to remember that Witchers aren’t human,” she says. “The mutations that make them what they are dulls their emotions. He’s not going to feel pity or affection like you or me. He very well might let you die if it’s convenient for him.”

Jaskier reflects on his handful of encounters with Geralt. The Witcher is stoic, certainly, but emotionless? He was angry the first time they met. Exasperated on the car ride to Vengerberg. Deadly calm, but determined, during the encounter with the bruxas. And sleepy and contemplative in the bathtub. “I don’t think that’s true. I think he feels plenty, he just expresses it a little differently.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh. “You always see the best in people, kid. Even when they’re not really people. A blog isn’t worth dying for.”

“It’s not just about the blog.”

“Then what’s it about? You think you’re going to get a record deal just because you post a couple of videos of you singing about the Witcher?”

Jaskier is glad that it’s dark in the room so she can’t see on his face that that’s exactly what he’s been hoping for. “The guy is like four hundred years old and he lives in his car. I think so many people are scared of him—”

“For good reason.”

“Yeah, maybe, but he’s been fighting to defend the Continent from monsters for centuries. He deserves more than living in his car and being a social pariah. He saved my life, Calanthe. Have you ever seen a wyvern? Do you know what it’s like to be pinned down by one, and knowing that it’s about to kill you and that it’s probably going to be excruciating, but not being able to do anything about it?” He doesn’t realize that his voice has risen until Ciri stirs.

“If you’re thankful, Jaskier, just buy him a fruit basket or something,” Calanthe whispers.

Jaskier almost laughs at the thought of presenting Geralt of Rivia with a fruit basket, of all things. “It’s not like I’m going to do this forever. Just a few missions and a few songs, enough to get people to see that he’s not this monster they need to be afraid of.”

Calanthe is quiet for a long moment. “When Ciri first moved in with me, she was like a little ghost. Pavetta and Duny dying broke her heart. And then you moved in next door. And from the first time you watched her for me, it was like the two of you just clicked. She’s more herself now that she had been in years. You bring out the best in her. She absolutely idolizes you.”

Jaskier glances over at Ciri. Her long blonde hair glows in the flicker of the TV.

“I don’t want her to go back to that silent, scared little girl who came to me after the boating accident,” Calanthe says. “And that’s what’s going to happen if you die. So, please, Jaskier, try and stay alive for Ciri.”

A lump rises in Jaskier’s throat. “I’ll do my best.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to any big Mousesack fans for turning him into a cat. Every time they said his name in the show, all I could think was that it would make a fantastic cat name, so here we are.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed!


	3. Of Cockatrices and Cocktails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a cockatrice stalks tourists in the ruins of Old Cintra, Geralt and Jaskier are invited to a gala being thrown at the palace. Geralt runs into an old enemy and Jaskier comes to an uncomfortable realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really touched by all the kind comments I've been getting. Thank you so much to everyone for taking the time to read!

“Jaskier, there’s some guy in your kitchen.”

“Wuh?” Jaskier unburies his face from his pillow and peers up at last night’s one night stand, Adrian.

“There’s a guy in your kitchen.” Adrian looks over his shoulder nervously. “He told me to wake you up.”

“Is he wearing leather pants?”

“Yeah.”

Fucking Geralt. “Sorry about him. That’s the Witcher I was telling you about.”

Adrian doesn’t look impressed. “I’m going to go. He’s kind of scary."

Jaskier smiles in what he hopes is a seductive fashion, but he’s pretty sure the drool and pillow crease on his cheek ruins the effect. This is why he doesn’t normally let people sleep over. “Call me!”

Adrian hurries out without another word. Jaskier does not think he’s going to call. With a groan, he drags himself out of bed, checks to make sure he’s wearing nice boxers this time, and shuffles into the kitchen. He finds Geralt sitting at his table, drinking a cup of coffee.

“You know, this is why I gave you my old cell phone,” Jaskier says. “So you wouldn’t have to turn up in my apartment at ungodly hours of the morning.”

“I can’t get it to turn on.”

“That’s because you need to charge it, Geralt. We’ve been over this.”

“Hm,” Geralt says.

“And help yourself to my coffee, by the way.” Jaskier goes to pour himself a mug. “At least a coffee maker is one modern technology you seem to grasp.”

“I find I drink a lot more of it since I met you,” Geralt says. “It’s almost as if my life is less restful.”

“Oh, your life? Your life is less restful, really?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier grumbles to himself. “So, why are you in my kitchen at the crack of dawn?”

“Dawn was three hours ago. You reek of whiskey.”

“Wow, reek is a strong word. I had a gig last night. Opening night of this new distillery downtown.”

“So you decided to bathe in their whiskey?”

“Hey, if you want me freshly showered, call first.” Jaskier plops down across from him. “So, what’s the job? More ghouls? Drowners? Ooh, another kikimora? That was fun. Will you let me out of the car this time? Roach is growing on me, but I’m getting tired of staying in the car.”

“If you let me get a word in edgewise, I can tell you.”

“You know, for someone who gets up this early voluntarily, you’re cranky in the morning.”

Geralt lets out another “hm,” which after three months of knowing the Witcher, Jaskier is starting to realize means that Geralt either doesn’t know what to say or knows he shouldn’t say what he wants to.

Jaskier grins into his coffee. “Please, Geralt, tell me about our next adventure.”

“Have you ever heard of a cockatrice?”

“Half-lizard, half-chicken, paralyzes people with a look? Sounds like some of my exes.”

Geralt doesn’t crack a smile. Jaskier has to admit it was a tired joke. For some reason, he’s never on his A game with the Witcher. “One has found its way into the ruins of Old Cintra. So far, it’s killed two tourists and an archaeologist. The New Cintra Historical Society has a gala planned for the two hundredth anniversary of the sacking of Old Cintra this weekend. There are supposed to be re-enactments. They’re opening up a new wing of the old palace to the public. Apparently, this is significant.”

“Most people don’t count as historical landmarks themselves, Geralt, so they get excited about being able to tour them.”

The Witcher gives Jaskier a look that probably would have made him wet himself three months ago. “Apparently, one of the historical society’s benefactors is a fan of your videos.”

“Wait, what?” Jaskier leans forward. “What did they say? Did they mention which ones they like? Are they young and reasonably good-looking?”

Geralt ignores him. “They want me to deal with the cockatrice and they want you to sing at the gala at the Old Cintran palace tomorrow night.”

A wide grin spreads over Jaskier’s face. “Way to bury the lede, Geralt! What’s the dress code like? Semi-formal? Business casual? Black tie? And how many people are we talking? Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? Will there already be a sound system set up, or do I have to bring my own equipment?” At Geralt’s blank look, he falls silent. “You didn’t ask any of these questions, did you?”

“I was busy asking questions about the cockatrice.”

Jaskier groans. “I can’t play a gig when I know nothing about it. I need to tailor my set to my audience.”

“I can call her back and inform her that we won’t be attending the gala.” Geralt almost looks cheered by that proposition.

“No, don’t do that!”

“The gala will be a waste of our time anyway.”

“No, it won’t! Remember, this is all about improving your public image. Schmoozing with the rich and powerful of New Cintra will go a long way.”

“I don’t schmooze.”

“Wow, Geralt, that’s the most surprising thing you’ve ever said to me,” Jaskier deadpans. “Fine, I will schmooze and you just try to show up, not stab anyone, and be fantastically good-looking. Okay?”

The Witcher gives him a strange look and Jaskier realizes that his mouth has run away from him. Again. “Um, I mean, just show up and try not to look too scary.”

“Jaskier!” The door to Jaskier’s apartment flies open and Ciri rushes in.“Did I leave my purple sandals here?”

Jaskier looks at the clock. “Shouldn’t you have left for school five minutes ago?”

“Yes! But I can’t find my sandals anywhere.” Ciri’s eyes fall on Geralt and her blue eyes go huge. “Is that—”

“Geralt, this is Ciri, my next door neighbor,” Jaskier says, waving his hand like he’s a game show host. “She has an incredible number of shoes, but is apparently about to make herself late to school again over a pair of seasonally inappropriate sandals. Ciri, this is my friend, Geralt.”

Geralt’s jaw twitches at the word “friend,” but he doesn’t correct Jaskier. “Your sandals are behind the futon.”

“Thank you!” Ciri rushes to retrieve them. She starts to the door, then pauses and turns around. “Jaskier told me about how you killed all those ghouls. That was amazing.”

Geralt shrugs, but looks just the tiniest bit smug. “Ghouls are easy, so long as you don’t let them bite you. Even Jaskier would stand a chance.”

“Hey!” Jaskier snaps as Ciri giggles.

“Jaskier comes over to our place a lot for dinner,” Ciri tells Geralt. “You should come sometime.”

Jaskier winces at the idea. The only thing that’s keeping the peace between him and Calanthe right now is that they’re pretending the Witcher situation isn’t happening. He can’t imagine her reaction if he brought Geralt over for dinner and board games. “Not this weekend, Cir. We’re going to New Cintra for a job.”

A shadow of disappointment crosses Ciri’s face.

“Maybe next weekend, the three of us can go grab some pizza.” Jaskier looks over at Geralt to back him up.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

“Great!” Jaskier turns on his thousand watt smile. “It’s a plan. You should probably get going, Ciri, unless you want to repeat freshman year.”

“Ugh, no.” She wrinkles her nose. “Bye, Jask. Nice meeting you, Geralt!” She’s out the door before either of them can reply.

“You should lock your door,” Geralt says.

“Oh, the lock doesn’t work. Hasn’t since I moved in.” At the Witcher’s dismayed look, he adds, “It’s a pretty safe building! And it’s not like I have anything valuable in here. I don’t even have a TV.”

“What about your life?”

“You think my life is valuable, Geralt? That’s so sweet. If you’re not careful, I’m going to start thinking you’re just an enormous, muscular marshmallow.”

“You’re traveling with a Witcher. I have enemies. If you spend enough time with me, those enemies will become your enemies too.”

Jaskier feels his smile dim. “I’ll call the super again. Not that it will help.”

“Hm.”

“Now, back to important things, like the party.” Jaskier leans forward. “Please tell me you have some pants that aren’t leather.”

***

Geralt apparently doesn’t own any pants that aren’t leather, because when he picks Jaskier up the next morning, he’s wearing the same outfit he always seems to be wearing.

“Do you own any other clothes?” Jaskier demands. 

“What’s wrong with these clothes?”

“Nothing, but don’t you want to switch it up once in a while? Don’t you ever wake up and feel like wearing a pair of jeans? Or gods forbid, sweatpants?”

“No.”

“Of course you don’t.” With a sigh, Jaskier leans back in the passenger seat and closes his eyes.

The drive to New Cintra is long, longer because the Witcher refuses to stop, turn on the radio, or sing any road trip songs with Jaskier (Jaskier only gets to ninety-five bottles of mead on the wall before Geralt starts threatening to leave him on the side of the road.) When they finally see the skyline of New Cintra on the horizon, he sags with relief. He’s starving, he’s had to pee for hours now, and he could really use a nap before tonight’s gig.

“I almost went to University of New Cintra,” he tells Geralt. “I’ve always wanted to live here.”

He doesn’t expect Geralt to answer, as he normally doesn’t reply to Fun Facts about Jaskier, but the Witcher surprises him. “But you went to Oxenfurt instead.”

“I did.” Jaskier is pleased that Geralt remembers this detail about him. “My parents wouldn’t pay for UNC. On paper, Oxenfurt is a better school, even if UNC has the best music program on the Continent. So I went to Oxenfurt. But then they disowned me anyway halfway through my junior year, so I paid for my senior year myself. Hence all the student loans.”

“Hm.”

“I wanted to move here after I graduated,” Jaskier continues. “I’ve always loved this city and there’s no better place to be an up-and-coming singer. But all I could find is unpaid internships and housing in New Cintra is crazy expensive.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier sighs. “Nice talk, Geralt.”

“Hm.”

“Oh, now you’re just trying to annoy me,” Jaskier says. The Witcher doesn’t reply, but Jaskier is pretty sure he sees the faintest flicker of a smile.

Jaskier gives up on conversation until they get to the hotel. The woman at the front desk asks for both of their autographs, which Jaskier provides happily and Geralt consents to only after an elbow to the side from Jaskier.

“Okay, we have two hours until I need to be at the gala to set up,” Jaskier says as they step into the elevator. “What do we do until then?”

“I’m going to go talk to our client. You get some rest.”

Jaskier eyes him doubtfully. “You’re going to go talk to our client? Without me?”

“I did manage for several centuries without you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier can’t argue with that. “Fine, just don’t get us fired. What’s the plan for tonight?”

“We go to the gala. Our client wants you there for your songs and me there to reassure the guests that they’re safe from the cockatrice. I will leave towards the end of the gala to deal with the cockatrice.”

“What about me?”

“The cockatrice can hypnotize with a single look. I’m immune to its effects; you are not. You’ll stay at the gala.”

“But—”

“Jaskier. Rule number five.”

Jaskier is really starting to hate rule number five. “Fine.”

His annoyance is forgotten when he gets the hotel room, which adjoins Geralt’s. There’s an enormous bathtub, a TV that takes up most of one wall, and to his delight, a king-sized bed. Jaskier flops down on the bed without even putting his things down.

“Geralt, this is amazing,” he calls. “Can all of our jobs come with parties and king-sized beds?”

“Unlikely.”

“I sleep on an air mattress most nights. This is like sleeping on a cloud. And I think I could fit at least three other people in here with me. Maybe four, if at least two of them are gymnasts. What do you think, Geralt? Geralt?”

The door adjoining their rooms closes with a click.

***

Jaskier has never played for more than a bar of fifty or sixty people before. He’s used to more casual atmospheres, where he can walk around with his guitar to flirt with pretty bar patrons and put out a tip jar. But the New Cintra Historical Society’s gala in the Old Palace’s ballroom is anything but casual. The ballroom has been restored to its pre-war glory with every stained glass window, column, and tile carefully reconstructed. It’s the most beautiful thing Jaskier has ever seen. It’s packed with well over three hundred people, each more glamorous than the last. Standing in the corner with his beat-up old guitar and his suit that’s just a little too tight (he needs to lay off the noodles) Jaskier feels slightly shabby and out of place.

But he can’t let that show. With a glowing smile to the handful of people who are paying attention to him, Jaskier begins to sing. “When a humble bard, graced a ride along…”

As he sings, he looks around the room, catching sight of Geralt standing against a wall on the other side of the ballroom. The Witcher is surrounded by admirers, naturally, mostly women. One girl, who looks like she’s barely college-aged, is brave enough to cling to his arm. Geralt looks uncomfortable enough that Jaskier almost chokes on his laughter and has to look away, lest he ruin his own set by cackling. He’ll have to write a song about this: Geralt of Rivia, who can face down any monster without a second thought, but clams up at the sight of swooning coeds.

His set goes surprisingly well. By the end, he has a large group gathered around the stage. Every song he sings about his exploits with Geralt gets an enthusiastic reaction. His pre-Geralt songs, not so much, which means that Jaskier is probably going to finally retire them. He finishes his set with an encore of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher,” much to the delight of his audience, who whoop and sing along.

When he’s done, Jaskier signs a bunch of autographs, takes a few selfies, and gets the number of a very pretty redhead. A glass of wine and several canapes are shoved into his hands. He’s happy to talk to anyone who will listen about his travels with Geralt and how of course they’re all safe from the cockatrice as long as the Witcher is around and no, he doesn’t know if Geralt is seeing anyone but they’re welcome to go find out if they wish.

Finally, he gets a breather from the crowd of admirers and makes his way to the bar to get another glass of sparkling wine. The next set, a concert pianist who has won several awards, has started to play, and the room is filled with her soothing melody. Jaskier hums along as he looks around the room to see if he can find that redhead again. He doesn’t realize that there’s someone standing next to him until the man speaks.

“You have quite a way with words, young man.” The speaker is a middle-aged man, of average height with thinning gray hair, a kindly face, and a neatly trimmed goatee. “You’re a true storyteller. It’s an art that I’m afraid has fallen by the wayside over the years.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier glows at the praise.

“You can tell a lot when a crowd like this is impressed by you.” The man waves his hand at the milling partygoers. “These people are professionals at not being impressed by anything. The expensive sparkling wine we are drinking isn’t sparkling enough. The bite-sized canapes aren’t bite-sized enough. The ancient palace we are standing in isn’t grand enough.”

Jaskier puts him at about fifty, but the man speaks with a world-weariness that reminds him a bit of Geralt. “It’s a great party.”

“Yes, well if Cintrans know how to do anything, it’s how to throw a party. That hasn’t changed.” The man takes a sip of his wine, his gaze far away. “It does look remarkably human, doesn’t it? I can see why you find the Butcher of Blaviken so inspiring. Witchers are incredible beasts.”

Jaskier realizes that he’s staring at Geralt, who is still standing against the same wall, surrounded by the same gaggle of admirers and wearing the same uncomfortable expression. Suddenly, the man’s narrow face seems less kindly and more weasely. “Yes, he is incredible.” Jaskier stresses the pronoun.

“Have you seen it in action yet, when its eyes turn black?” the man asks.

“Yes,” Jaskier says. “On the night he saved my life. Have a nice night.”

He starts to turn away, but the man continues like Jaskier never replied. “That’s how you know Witchers aren’t human anymore, not after all that was done to them. I dissected a Witcher once, many years ago. Nothing about it was human on the inside. Even the heart was deformed. The one good thing that can be said is that the madmen at Kaer Morhen made them sterile.”

Jaskier whirls around, fists clenched around his guitar and his glass of wine. “Who the hell are you?”

The man opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off by a low growl. “Stregobor.”

Geralt steps between Jaskier and the man, brushing so close to Jaskier that he feels the whisper of displaced air against his skin. One moment, he’s contemplating punching the asshole right in the goatee, the next he’s staring at the back of Geralt’s head.

“Geralt, what a delightful surprise,” Stregobor says. “What’s it been, fifty, sixty years?”

“Not long enough.”

“I was just getting to know your little friend.” The older man peers around Geralt. “What is it, Jason?”

Geralt shifts to the side, blocking Stregobor’s view of Jaskier. “The last I heard, you were bowing and scraping in the emperor’s court.”

“There’s only room for one mage in the emperor’s court,” Stregobor says. “Fringilla has made sure of that.”

“So you’ve moved onto bigger and better things, like historical societies.”

“Oh, this is just a side project. You and I know better than anyone how important it is to preserve history. I mean, look at this place.” Stregobor gestures around expansively. “Remember the balls here? The food and the wine? The lovely princesses?”

“I remember this city burning, partially because of you and your cowardice. I remember people raped and tortured in the streets. I remember the royal family dead in their beds at their own hands.” Geralt’s voice is lower and colder than Jaskier has ever heard it. He finds himself taking a step backwards involuntarily.

Stregobor waves a hand, like he’s swatting away a fly. “Bygones, Geralt. Just like Blaviken.”

Jaskier sees Geralt’s shoulders tense and knows he’s probably about to punch the man. He steps forward and grabs the Witcher’s shoulder. For a moment, he can’t believe his own audacity and half-expects to be strangled where he stands. But to his surprise, Geralt seems to relax.

Stregobor smiles at Jaskier, like a friend sharing an old joke. “I was at Blaviken, you know. I saw the whole thing with my own two eyes.”

“We’re going now,” Geralt says, taking Jaskier by the arm and steering him away. “There’s a cockatrice to kill. Enjoy the party.”

“It was a pleasure, Jaskier!” Stregobor calls after them. “Keep singing!”

“They haven’t served dinner yet, Geralt.” Jaskier tries for a light tone, but falls short.

The Witcher doesn’t reply.

“I thought I was supposed to stay at the party while you went and dealt with the cockatrice.”

“You’re safer with the cockatrice than here.”

“Look, that guy was an asshole—”

“Stregobor once got it in his head that a baby born on the day of the eclipse was going to have a demon inside her. He had dozens of girls murdered and dissected, all to boost his own ego. He was once ready to let an entire town be slaughtered to save his own hide. He talked the mages at Aretuza out of interfering in the Nilfgaardian takeover, knowing full well what the consequences for the Continent would be. It’s not the truly powerful mages you have to worry about, Jaskier. It’s the mediocre ones who will do anything to gain fame and glory.”

It’s the most Jaskier has ever heard Geralt say at once. “And so the two of you hate each other?”

“Stregobor doesn’t like it when someone sees through his wise old wizard bullshit. I don’t like it when people try to bullshit me.”

Jaskier has a feeling it goes much deeper than that, but he values keeping his spinal cord inside his body too much to ask. Instead, he follows Geralt out of the party and into the quiet streets of Old Cintra, still carrying his guitar in one hand and his glass of wine in the other.

***

“Look, I’m not complaining about not having to wait in the car.”

“I should hope not. You’ve been whining about it for months.”

“But did tonight of all nights have to be the night you let me come along on a job?” There’s a biting chill in the autumn night and a light ran has started. Jaskier isn’t dressed for the weather, especially since he took off his jacket to protect his guitar. His button-up shirt and dress pants do little to protect him from the elements. Sitting on a low wall, he shivers.

Geralt’s jaw twitches. It’s been hours since they left the party and the Witcher is still tense and moody. “Cockatrices are easy to kill, so long as you don’t look them in the eye. You won’t be in any danger, unless you act foolishly. So you may be in some danger.”

“Gee, thanks.” Jaskier looks around hopefully, not that he can see much. The absence of street lights makes the ruins of Old Cintra pitch black. In the distance, he can see the glittering skyline of New Cintra and thinks longingly of his hotel room. “Maybe with the party, there’s too much activity for the cockatrice. Should we should call it a night and try again tomorrow? Maybe they’ll spring for us to stay a second night.”

“We’re not staying the night.”

“What? But Geralt, I haven’t slept in a king sized bed in years. Or on a real mattress, for that matter. I need this.”

“Hm.”

Annoyance rises in Jaskier. “You need to give me a better explanation than ‘hm.’”

“Stregobor said the historical society is a ‘side project.’ That means he has other projects. I don’t want to stay long enough to find out what they are.”

Jaskier looks around uneasily. “Do you think Stregobor lured us here or something?”

“I doubt it, but now that he knows we’re here, I don’t want to linger.” Nearby, there’s a loud inhuman shriek that causes the hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck to prickle. Geralt tenses in a way that reminds Jaskier of a wolf sensing its prey (or Jaskier’s childhood golden retriever seeing a squirrel, though that’s not quite as poetic.) 

“Stay here.” Geralt draws his sword.

Jaskier starts to protest, but another shriek rends the air, reminding him hauntingly of that wyvern, and he closes his mouth. “Okay.”

Geralt looks a bit surprised by the lack of argument, but he just nods and vanishes into the darkness. Jaskier sits very still, shivering in the cold and listening for any signs of an approaching cockatrice. He doesn’t hear any shrieks, footsteps, or rustling of feathers. He also doesn’t hear the sound of a battle in the distance.

And then he hears the quiet patter of stones falling to the ground. Jaskier looks up without thinking, then curses himself. Had it been the cockatrice, he would have been hypnotized in an instant. But instead, it’s a person standing on the roof of the building in front of them. In the darkness, Jaskier can’t make out any details, just that they’re tall and rangy. As he watches, the person leaps to the roof of the next building over, farther than any normal human could. The person continues leaping from building to building, moving with a fluid grace that reminds Jaskier of Geralt.

And they’re heading in the direction that Geralt just went.

“Oh, fuck rule number five,” Jaskier whispers and slides off the wall. Maybe the person on the roof is just a fan who wanted to see the Witcher in action. A very daring, athletic fan. But Jaskier can’t get rid of the uneasy knot in his gut.

“Geralt?” he calls softly as he shuffles through the ruins, clutching his guitar protectively to his chest. “Geralt?”

There’s no reply. He’s lost sight of the person on the roof too.

And then Jaskier hears a deep “cluck” from behind him, rather like a chicken with a head cold, and he freezes. He was so intent on the mysterious person, he completely forgot about the fucking cockatrice.

“Hi, pretty birdie,” he whispers.

His only response is another “cluck,” this one closer. Clucking should not be so menacing.

“Geralt?” He doesn’t bother keeping his voice soft now.

He hears the rustling of feathers behind him and knows that there’s no time to wait for the Witcher to come save him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he whirls around and swings his guitar with all his might. He comes into contact with something large, which squawks in indignation. Jaskier swings again, harder this time. He hears the splintering of wood and twanging of strings, but he doesn’t stop swinging. The guitar is knocked out of his hands and Jaskier stumbles backwards, raising his hands to protect his face, as he hears the cockatrice rush at him.

And then there’s a meaty thwack, a final, strangled squawk, and silence.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is low and deadly. “What part of ‘stay here’ was so hard to understand?”

Jaskier opens his eyes to find Geralt standing over him, eyes completely black. Jaskier flinches. Even after months of knowing the Witcher, he never gets used to seeing Geralt’s eyes like that. Jaskier lets out a shaky laugh. “I, um…”

“I told you to stay on the wall. This is not the wall.”

“I know, but—”

“It could have killed you.”

“But it didn’t! I hit it with my guitar...oh gods, my guitar.” Jaskier drops to his knees among the wreckage of his guitar, scattered among the blood and feathers on the cobblestones. His second destroyed guitar this year. “Fuck, I don’t have the money to replace it right now.”

“You’re still working at the grocery store.”

“Yes, but do you know how many shifts I call out of to follow you around? Unpaid, by the way.” Jaskier closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “There was someone following you. That’s why I was trying to find you. They were jumping from roof to roof. I don’t think they were human.”

Geralt’s eyes, which were just starting to turn yellow again, go full black. “Jaskier, get behind me.”

Jaskier scrambles to obey him. “Do you think Stregobor sent them?”

Geralt shushes him. For a long, excruciating moment, Jaskier stands behind the Witcher, heart hammering in his chest and breathing raspy. If he’s shaking a little, he chooses to blame it on the cold. He’s not used to seeing the Witcher concerned and it rattles him.

Finally, Geralt turns to him. “I don’t hear anything. Whoever they are, they’ve left.”

Jaskier nods. “Who do you think they were?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t want to stick around to find out. Let’s go.”

***

When Jaskier gets back to his apartment in the wee hours of the morning, bleary-eyed and thinking longingly of the king-sized bed he should have been sleeping in, he’s shocked to find his front door propped open and his building’s superintendent kneeling there, fiddling with the lock.

“Mr. Pankratz!” The super springs to his feet, bald head glistening with sweat. “I was hoping to get this done before you got home.”

Jaskier blinks at him. He’s used to the super calling him “kid” if he calls him anything, or on one memorable occasion, “you entitled fucking brat.”

“Your lock is pretty much fixed.” The super gestures to the door. “And a locksmith is coming to install a deadbolt and chain, like your friend asked. He should be here later today.”

“My friend?” Jaskier asks dumbly.

The super swallows. “You’ll tell him your lock is fixed, right? And I did everything he said?”

A grin spreads over Jaskier’s face. “Yeah, I’ll tell him.” And then he heads to bed, still smiling like an idiot.

***

Two days later, Jaskier is attempting to make himself some boxed mac and cheese for dinner when there’s a knock at his door. It’s too quiet to be Ciri or Calanthe, so he’s not surprised when he opens his door and finds Geralt standing there, holding a box under his arm and wearing a scowl.

“All the locks in the world won’t help if you don’t confirm who it is before opening the door,” he growls.

“Nice to see you too, Geralt.” Jaskier gestures for him to come inside. “I’m making mac and cheese. Do you want any?”

“Do you ever eat real food?”

“Mac and cheese is an excellent source of calcium. It says so on the box.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Geralt studies the door critically. “I asked for two deadbolts.”

“One deadbolt is fine, Geralt. Leave my super alone. You practically made the man piss himself.”

“Maybe he should do his damn job then.”

“I could really use a better showerhead, if you want to ask him about that next.”

“Don’t push it.”

Jaskier grins as he scoops mac and cheese into two bowls and hands one to Geralt. The Witcher looks at his skeptically, but still takes a bite. “Cheese isn’t supposed to be this color.”

“That’s because there’s no real cheese in there,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Eat up. I have my post about the cockatrice almost written, if you want to read it. No song, though, because of the lack of guitar. My adoring public will be disappointed.”

The Witcher puts down his bowl. “That’s why I came over. I have something for you.”

Jaskier cocks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“First.” Geralt hands him an envelope. When Jaskier opens it, he sees a wad of cash. “Your payment for the New Cintra Historical Society gala. Plus, ten percent of my fee for killing the cockatrice.”

Jaskier hasn’t had this much cash in his hands in a long time. “I thought you didn’t pay me.”

“Your songs are bringing in more clients than I’ve had in decades. It’s only fair for you to get a cut.”

“What about fifteen percent?”

“No.”

“Fair enough.” Jaskier tucks the envelope into his pocket. “Thank you, Geralt. This will buy me new guitar.”

“And then there’s this.” Geralt gestures to the box.

“If it’s the head of the cockatrice, I respectfully decline.”

“Just open it.”

Jaskier unlatches the box and gasps. Inside is the most beautiful lute he’s ever seen, carved from wood and ivory. It’s so lovely, he almost doesn’t want to touch it, but he picks it up with shaking hands and plucks at one of the strings experimentally.

“I know it’s not a guitar,” Geralt says, sounding almost sheepish. “But it’s elven made. It was given to me as payment many, many years ago. I have no use for it, but I thought you might like it.”

“It’s beautiful.” Reverently, Jaskier runs a finger over the ornate, curling designs. “Geralt, this is way too much. You don’t have to…”

“I told you, I have no use for it. You do. It’s yours.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier looks up into Geralt’s piercing yellow eyes.

Jaskier has had many crushes in his life. Calanthe once told him that he can’t go more than a day without falling in love with someone, and she’s not wrong. Jaskier can develop a crush on anyone at the drop of a hat--be it the pretty barista who always remembers his latte order or the hot jogger he sees run by with his pack of Labradors every morning So he’s intimately familiar with what the beginnings of a crush feels like: that tingly, bubbly feeling in the pit of his stomach, the warmth in his cheeks, the way it hurts to meet Geralt’s eyes.

Jaskier has a crush on Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken.

Geralt clears his throat. “I just got a call about a drowner. It’s found its way into a koi pond, just on the other side of Posada. If you had no other plans tonight…”

“Sounds great.” Jaskier’s voice comes out just a bit too high pitched. “Let me clean up first, and then I’ll meet you in the car, okay?”

Geralt nods. “Just be quick.”

“I’m never quick, Geralt. You know this.”

The Witcher sighs and leaves, pulling the door closed behind him.

Jaskier closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow breath. “Fuck.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #JusticeforRenfri
> 
> The next chapter looks like it's going to be a long one, so I may not update again until the end of the week. Sorry in advance for the wait!


	4. Of Arachnids and Assassins Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When an assassin is hired to kill Geralt, Jaskier gets caught in the crossfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being much longer than anticipated, so I decided to break it into two parts. Part 2 should be ready in the next day or two.
> 
> Also, content warning: this chapter involves giant spiders. There are no graphic descriptions or anything, but if you suffer from arachnophobia, you might want to scroll past the first section.

“You told me to stay in the fucking car, Geralt, so I stayed in the fucking car. I didn’t even complain. Because honestly, fuck spiders. Nobody likes fucking spiders. But right now, there’s a giant fucking spider attacking the car, so if you could answer your fucking phone, that would be awesome. Awesome!”

A beep in his ear tells Jaskier that his voicemail has exceeded its allotted time, so he throws his cell phone aside in disgust. The car gives another lurch and he swallows a whimper. He can’t see what’s happening through the thick, sticky web encasing Roach, but he knows that the giant spider is probably trying to figure out why its prey isn’t edible. It’s only a matter of time before the spider rips through the car’s steel and fiberglass to find a very edible Jaskier inside. He tries not to think of the pictures of the spider’s victims that Geralt showed him.

“Come on, Geralt,” he whispers. “Come on, please don’t let me get eaten by a spider.”

The car rocks violently and for a terrifying moment, Jaskier thinks it’s going to roll over. He sees the shadows of the spider’s legs through the web, engulfing the car, and he wonders if it’s going to crush Roach with Jaskier inside. On the floor of the backseat, he tries to make himself as small as possible, like that will help when the spider rips Roach’s roof off.

And then the car rocks again and the spider screams. Jaskier holds his breath as he listens to the sounds of the scuffles outside: the shrieks, the crunch of sword meeting exoskeleton, Geralt’s grunts of exertion. And then, finally, there’s the crash of the spider’s enormous body hitting the ground.

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls.

Jaskier has to take a moment to steady his voice before he responds. “In here! I’m okay.”

Geralt begins to hack through the web engulfing Roach. Jaskier expects the Witcher to fling the car door open. He lets himself imagine Geralt checking him over for wounds. Maybe there will even be an embrace. Unlikely, but a man can dream. But a long moment of lying curled up on the ground, there’s been no flinging of doors and no relieved embraces. Jaskier pushes open the door, sticks his head out, and finds Geralt checking over Roach’s paint job for any scratches.

“Seriously?” Jaskier asks. “I’m the one who just nearly got eaten by a spider, and you’re worried about the car?”

“You were safely inside Roach. She bore the brunt of the attack.”

“Roach wasn’t the one at risk of having all her juices sucked out until she was a dry husk!”

“You’re fine.”

“A husk, Geralt!”

“At least husks are quiet,” Geralt mutters.

“Was I not supposed to hear that? Because I heard that, loud and clear.”

Geralt straightens up. “We’ll need to stop at a car wash on our way back to Posada. I can’t get all the web off.”

“Gods, we can’t have that.” When the Witcher turns to glare at him, Jaskier smiles innocently. “But we should hurry. We’re taking Ciri out for pizza, remember?”

“Hm.”

“Oh, don’t ‘hm’ me. You promised, remember?”

“I promised nothing. You did all the talking. As you normally do.”

“You say the sweetest things, Geralt.” Was that too flirty? It sounded a bit too flirty to Jaskier’s ears. Ducking his head to hide his blush, he climbs back into the front seat. In the week since he realized that he’s falling for the Witcher, he’s had to watch everything he says. He can’t risk Geralt starting to suspect how Jaskier feels.

Jaskier would rather go another round with the spider.

***

“It was at least two tons,” Jaskier tells Ciri from around a mouthful of pepperoni pizza. “With giant fangs and blazing red eyes.”

“It was maybe a ton,” Geralt says.

Jaskier throws a piece of crust at him. The Witcher catches it deftly. “It was huge. Massive. It could have swallowed Roach and me in one bite.”

Geralt stares at the tomato sauce-flecked ceiling. “Its mouth was not that large.”

“Who’s Roach?” Ciri looks between Jaskier and Geralt, clearly enthralled.

“His car,” Jaskier says.

Ciri cocks an eyebrow. “You named your car Roach?”

“She’s named after a horse I had many, many years ago,” Geralt says. “The best mare I’ve ever had. Possibly the best friend.”

Jaskier tries not to be too outraged. He’s made fun of the Witcher for the car’s names a dozen times, and he’s never gotten that piece of information.

Ciri narrows her eyes. “How old are you?”

The Witcher smiles, the friendliest expression Jaskier has ever seen on him. “How old are you?”

“I’ll be fifteen next month.”

“I’m older than fifteen.”

Ciri giggles, a sound that makes Jaskier grin. Sometimes, Ciri acts far too old for her age. He’s not sure whether it was losing her parents at such a young age or being raised by a grandmother who works sixty hour weeks, but she’s always been just a little too reserved, a little too dignified. It’s nice to see her laugh and listen to stories with wide eyes, like the kid she is.

“The spider today was nothing,” Geralt tells her. “I once came across an entire nest of them in the mountains.”

And he actually tells the story. With details. His attention to poetry and drama is lacking, but it’s a good foundation to build on. Jaskier types notes on his phone under the table, soaking in every detail. This is gold. How great will it be if the first song he posts with the lute is based off a story told in the Witcher’s own words? He barely notices the pizza in front of him turning cold. Ciri seems equally fascinated; she misses her mouth entirely while trying to take a sip of her soda.

“Why don’t you ever tell me this stuff?” Jaskier demands when Geralt is done. “I ask you about old battles all the time!”

Geralt looks unimpressed. “Ciri has better manners than you do.”

Jaskier clasps a hand over his heart in mock outrage, which causes Ciri to snort soda up her nose. Blushingly furiously, she excuses herself to the bathroom, leaving Geralt and Jaskier staring at each other from opposite sides of the booth.

“She likes you,” Jaskier says.

“She’s a delight.”

Of course Geralt is good with Ciri. It would be too easy for Jaskier if he wasn’t. Jaskier has been half-hoping that Geralt would spend the entire night being his awkward, distant self, and then Jaskier could forget all about his feelings for him. After all, he could never love anyone who didn’t love Ciri. But of course Geralt’s face goes all gentle when he talks to Ciri and now Jaskier can’t stop looking at him and wishing that the Witcher’s face would go soft like that over him. Gods, he’s an idiot.

“Anyway, thanks for coming tonight.” Jaskier stares down at the neon orange tabletop. An impressive number of dicks, several phone numbers, and an angrily crossed out declaration of love are etched into the vinyl. “Ciri’s been wanting to meet you for a while.”

“You two are close.”

Jaskier nods. “Her grandmother is a lawyer. She works long hours, so Ciri’s by herself a lot. Like three days after I moved in next to them, Calanthe came banging on my door because Ciri’s ride to school fell through and she desperately needed someone to take her. I started taking her to school a couple of days a week and letting her hang out at my place and do homework until Calanthe got home at night. I’d just moved to Posada and I was lonely and I’d always wanted a sibling, so I guess I just adopted her as my surrogate little sister. Plus, she loves my singing.”

“Or she’s just an excellent liar.”

“Wow, Geralt. And here I thought we were having a moment.”

The Witcher’s eyebrows draw together. “What kind of moment?”

“Um, a friendly moment. Like we’re friends.”

“We’re not friends.”

Jaskier sighs. “No, of course we’re not.”

Luckily, Ciri chooses that moment to return, cheeks still a little pink. She’s wearing her shirt backwards in an effort to hide the soda stain. Jaskier and Geralt both pretend not to notice. She insists on going to the ice cream place down the block after dinner and neither Geralt nor Jaskier object. Jaskier wants to drag out the evening as long as possible; he knows that after tonight, his interactions with Geralt will be back to all monster-hunting all the time. He’ll miss this softer, kinder version of the Witcher.

“What’s the scariest monster you’ve ever faced?” Ciri asks Geralt outside the ice cream shop.

“Humans.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not a fun answer. You’re supposed to give fun answers when people ask you questions like that.”

He pauses for a moment, considering. “Selkiemore. They’re nearly impossible to kill unless you get them from the inside.”

Jaskier opens his Notes app again. “How do you get them from the inside?”

“You let them swallow you,” Geralt says nonchalantly. “The guts get everywhere. It’s unpleasant. Be sure to include a line in your song about how my breath smelled like dead fish for a week, Jaskier.”

“Oh, I definitely will.” Jaskier elbows Ciri. “You have a future as a journalist. You’ve gotten more out of him in a night than I have in three months.”

“I’m less annoying,” Ciri says.

Geralt makes a noise that could be mistaken for a chuckle, if he were the chuckling type. Jaskier harrumphs, but his indignant reply dies on his lips when he glares over at Geralt and sees that the Witcher is giving him a look that almost seems… fond? Or at least, not actively irritated. Jaskier gives himself a mental shake. It’s one thing to have an impossible, stupid crush. It’s another thing to start reading into Geralt’s facial expressions in the hopes of finding something that will never be there.

Maybe Jaskier needs to get back into online dating. The bar scene clearly isn’t working out for him. All he needs to do is find some nice, normal person with a normal, boring job who will laugh at his jokes and be impressed by his stories of monster slaying. And then maybe Jaskier will be able to get Geralt of Rivia out of his system, once and for all.

***

The next night, Jaskier is two drinks and three free baskets of chips deep when he realizes that Todd, the adorable veterinary assistant he matched with earlier that day, isn’t going to show up for their date. In the hour and a half he’s been waiting, his waitress has gone from bubbly to sweetly sympathetic to obviously ready for him to get lost and free up his table for a better paying party. Glumly, Jaskier looks around the restaurant at the canoodling couples and laughing groups of friends and feels a pang of loneliness. It’s a Saturday night and it feels like he’s the only person in Posada who’s alone right now.

“Anything else I can get for you?” The waitress pointedly looks at the crowd of people in the waiting area.

“Just the check.” Jaskier throws back the dregs of his drink, saying a silent farewell to his hopes for the evening. And Todd takes drool-worthy mirror selfies too. He’s going to need to stop at a convenience store on his way home to get a frozen pizza and a half gallon of ice cream. 

He pays his bill and leaves, only to find an empty space and a “No parking” sign that he missed in his hurry to get to his date on time.

No getting laid, and now no car. Just how Jaskier wanted his Saturday night to go. With a muttered curse worthy of Geralt, Jaskier turns and heads back inside for another drink. Or five.

***

“If you throw up in Roach, I will leave you on the side of the road,” Geralt growls.

“You threaten to do that at least once a week.” Jaskier leans his face against the cool window. “You haven’t yet. And I’m not that drunk. The mixed drinks were just surprisingly strong. They were twelve dollars; I figured they’d be water. Usually, the more expensive a cocktail, the weaker it is.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier hiccups. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“What happened to your car?”

“It got towed.”

“And so you decided to get inebriated?”

This time, Jaskier doesn’t argue. “Todd stood me up.”

“Who is Todd?”

“This veterinary assistant I met online. He has two dogs and the kind of body dreams are made of. I thought it was meant to be.”

“Hm.”

“Thank you for the comforting words, Geralt. I feel much better.”

“You never seem to lack for companionship.”

“Yeah, but that’s just people I meet at bars. It would be nice to get someone to stick around for more than a night or two.” Jaskier turns to look at Geralt. The Witcher’s face is stained red by the tail lights of the car in front of him. The light throws every detail of his face into sharp relief: the strong jaw, the dimple in his chin, his long, straight nose. “What about you?”

“I am not going to discuss this with you.”

“Oh come on, you’ve been alive for like a thousand years. There has to be some badass lady Witcher out there who you’ve been having a torrid love affair with for centuries.”

“There are no lady Witchers, period.”

“Well, that seems short-sighted. So, no torrid love affairs?”

“We’re here. Get out of the car.”

Jaskier is just realizing that Roach has pulled to a stop. He peers out at the narrow street of townhouses. “This isn’t my building.”

“No, it’s my house,” Geralt says. “It’s closer. I’m not driving all the way across town because you can’t hold your liquor.”

“You bought a house? I thought you were sleeping in the car.”

“I’m renting.”

Jaskier cranes his head to look up at the house. It has red brick siding and flower boxes in the windows. “How long have you been staying here?”

“Two months,” Geralt says. “Since it became clear that I’d be in Posada for a while.”

“Not going to lie, I kind of pictured you living in a cave.”

“I’d like to get inside sometime tonight.”

“Ugh, fine.” Jaskier crawls out of Roach, wobbling slightly. “Thanks again for coming to get me.”

“I would say any time, but you would take me up on it.”

Jaskier can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t. He follows Geralt into the townhouse and is surprised to find that it’s nice. Sparsely furnished, but with a decent-sized kitchen and a fireplace. Jaskier sees a half-drunk glass of whiskey on the coffee table and realizes with a pang of guilt that the Witcher was probably having a relaxing evening in when Jaskier called him, drunk and frantic.

“Sorry to be a pain in the ass,” he mutters. “I tried calling Calanthe, but she didn’t pick up.”

“Why start apologizing for being a pain in the ass now, Jaskier?” Geralt asks, but there’s humor in his tone. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”

As Jaskier follows him upstairs, the deep bone-tiredness of sobering up hits him. He’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. He pauses in the doorway of the bedroom. When he’s pictured Geralt in a bedroom (which he definitely doesn’t do when he’s alone in the dark in his own bedroom) Jaskier has always pictured an austere space, probably with a cot instead of a bed and the mummified heads of some monsters hung on the walls. Instead, it’s a sparse but cozy space with a king-sized bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. There’s even a framed painting of a horse on the wall and he wonders if it’s Roach’s namesake.

“This is your bedroom?” There’s a squeak in Jaskier’s voice.

“The second bedroom doesn’t have any furniture in it.”

Jaskier looks between Geralt and the bed. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“Downstairs, on the couch.”

Jaskier tries not to look too disappointed. “I can take the couch.”

“I can sleep anywhere. Just go to bed, Jaskier.” Geralt turns to stalk down the stairs.

“Goodnight, Geralt!” Jaskier calls, but only gets a grunt in response.

Closing the door behind him, Jaskier crosses to sink into the bed. The sheets smell like Geralt, like leather and chamomile, and Jaskier closes his eyes and breathes in the scent. Despite how exhausted he is, he lies awake for a long time, trying not to picture Geralt in this bed. Trying not to picture Geralt in this bed with him. When he finally succumbs to sleep, he dreams of yellow eyes, leather pants, and large, strong hands.

When Jaskier’s eyes snap open, the room is pitch dark and quiet. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust enough to register the figure standing over him. For an instant, he thinks it’s Geralt. But then the person leans close to him and a low, amused voice says in his ear, “You weren’t who I was expecting to be in this bed.”

The bleariness of sleep is replaced by crystalline fear. He opens his mouth to yell for Geralt, but is cut off by something round and metallic being shoved against his gut. The barrel of a gun.

“Why don’t you ever use guns?” he asked Geralt once, when they first started working together. “Wouldn’t it be easier to pick off drowners if you had a sniper rifle?”

“I don’t like guns,” the Witcher grunted in response.

“Why not?”

“They make killing too easy. Killing should never be easy, no matter what your target is.”

And now, all Jaskier can think about is how easy it would be for this man to kill him. A twitch of his finger, and Jaskier will bleed out in seconds.

“I think you’re smart enough to know what happens if you scream.” The man’s face is close enough to his that Jaskier can make out vague details of his facial features: narrow features, a slightly off-center nose, a five o’clock shadow.

Slowly, Jaskier nods.

The intruder laughs humorlessly. “You see, now I have a problem. I was told specifically no collateral damage. It was in the contract. But I don’t like leaving witnesses. It always makes the job feel unfinished.”

Slowly, he trails the gun upwards, bringing it to rest over Jaskier’s hammering heart. 

“Personally, I’d listen to whoever is paying you,” Jaskier says. “I imagine the type of person to hire an assassin won’t be happy if you ignore their orders.”

“You make a good point.” The man taps the gun thoughtfully against Jaskier’s chest.

Emboldened by the lack of bullet in his heart, Jaskier adds, “Look, did whoever hire you tell you that the guy who lives here is a Witcher? If he finds you here, you’re fucked. It’s too dark for me to see your face clearly, so I won’t be able to describe you. Your best bet is to get out before he realizes something’s wrong. I won’t even go get him until you’re out of the house, I promise.”

The man with the gun is quiet for a moment, considering, and Jaskier holds his breath, torn between terror and desperate hope. “Or, battles can be confusing,” the man says. “Accidents happen. It would be easy for a stupid kid who thinks he has any business following a Witcher around to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tragic, but inevitable, don’t you think?”

“No,” Jaskier says quickly. “That doesn’t sound inevitable at all.”

The man presses the gun harder against him. “Who knows, maybe it was even your friend who struck the killing blow. We’ll never know, will we?”

Jaskier tries to think around the panic. “If you shoot me, he’ll hear the gunshot and then you’re as good as dead.”

“You make a good point. Luckily for me, there are lots of ways to kill someone.” Still keeping the gun pressed against Jaskier’s heart, the man seizes him by the throat with one hand and squeezes.

“No, no, no, please,” Jaskier just has time to beg before the man’s crushing grip completely cuts off his airway. He kicks out uselessly, still very aware of the gun pressed to his chest, but terror has taken over all reason. He tries to scream for Geralt, but all that comes out is a strangled gasp. With scrambling hands, he tries to pry the man’s fingers from his throat, but the man only tightens his grip.

“Shh, it’s alright,” the man murmurs. “It was always going to end this way for you. Just be thankful it’s at my hands and not in a kikimora’s jaws.”

Jaskier tries to speak, tries to scream, tries to do something but lie there and die, but he can’t make a noise. He can’t breathe. His thoughts are going muddied and he knows that he’s dying. There are tears and sweat and snot on his face and gods, what a pathetic way to go. _“Here lies Julian Alfred Pankratz,”_ the inscription on his gravestone will read. _“Died alone in another man’s bed because he didn’t see the ‘No Parking’ sign and he had no friends to call for a ride home.”_

He looks up into the eyes of his killer, which are just inches from his own. Even in the darkness, he can see that they’ve gone completely black.

***

It’s the lack of noise that wakes Geralt of Rivia up. He lies flat on his back on the couch, trying to figure out what exactly disturbed him. Ever since he put Jaskier to bed, all he’s heard from upstairs is noise. Snuffling and bed springs squeaking as the musician tossed and turned to get himself comfortable. Yawning. Coughing. Later, thunderous snoring. It took Geralt hours to fall asleep with all that racket.

But now, there’s only silence coming from upstairs and it unnerves him. Geralt sits up and his fingers twitch towards the sword lying on the coffee table. He hears a low murmur. A voice, definitely Jaskier's, though he can’t make out the words. Perhaps Jaskier is on the phone or talking in his sleep.

And then he hears it. A sharp, terrified, “No, no, no, please!”

Geralt seizes the sword and barrels up the stairs. He can hear the sounds of a struggle from inside the bedroom. Struggle is good. It means that Jaskier is still alive. “Just be grateful it’s at my hands and not a kikimora’s jaws,” an unfamiliar male voice says as Geralt throws the bedroom door open.

He only takes an instant to take stock of the scene before him. A dark haired man leans over Jaskier, one hand pressing the barrel of a handgun to Jaskier’s heart while the other is wrapped around his throat. Jaskier kicks and claws at the man’s hands. His face is contorted in fear. Geralt can see the fight going out of the younger man.

The attacker turns to Geralt, raising his gun, and Geralt sees that the man’s eyes are completely black. Geralt hurls himself forward. There’s the pop of a silenced gunshot and Geralt throws up a hand, casting a sign to deflect the bullet. The bullet bounces off the shield and embeds itself in his headboard. Geralt slams into the man with all his strength. A normal human would crumple under the force. The other Witcher raises his gun to point it directly between Geralt’s eyes.

Geralt knocks the gun out of his hands with his sword. He hears it skitter across the hardwood floor. He raises his sword, but the man punches him in the sternum with such force that Geralt stumbles backwards, stunned. The man pulls two knives out of his belt. He aims one for Geralt’s chest, the other for his gut. Geralt parries them away. He looks around for Jaskier, but the musician is no longer on the bed. Hopefully the boy was smart enough to shelter somewhere or flee.

The would-be assassin takes advantage of Geralt’s distraction and thrusts his daggers at Geralt’s chest. The blades glow with an unnatural purple light and Geralt knows they’re cursed. If he is stabbed and survives the initial wounds, the curse will kill him. He dodges the blades and circles around his opponent, sword raised.

Light floods the room. “Drop your knives, asshole, and get the fuck out of here.”

Jaskier stands on the other side of the bed, holding the assassin’s gun in shaking hands. Wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, he looks pale and vulnerable. There are livid red marks on his throat and chest that will undoubtedly turn into bruises. His eyes have the wide, shocked look typical of humans who have just had a near-death experience. 

“Get out,” Jaskier repeats.

The assassin turns to him with an amused smile. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

“No. But how hard can it be? Point and squeeze, right?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says through gritted teeth. “Run.” By all the gods, the door is right behind the fool. All he has to do is take a step backwards, and he’ll be safely out of the room.

“Not without you.”

“Rule number four.”

“This isn’t a hunt. Rule number four doesn’t apply.”

“I say when the rules apply, not you.” When this is done, Geralt is going to kill him.

The assassin takes a step towards Jaskier and the musician flinches. Geralt’s grip tightens on his sword. “Even if you get in a lucky shot, boy, do you really think a bullet will kill me?”

“Why not?” Jaskier asks. “Because you’re a Witcher? You brought a gun to kill another Witcher. I think it will do the trick.”

“Look at you. Your legs are shaking. Your teeth are chattering. You’re terrified. You don’t have the balls—”

Jaskier pulls the trigger. He misses, because of course he does, but the assassin is so caught off guard by the gunshot that Geralt has the chance to bring his sword slashing down across the other Witcher’s chest. The man stumbles back, mouth agape as blood flows freely from the wound. He turns and hurls one of the cursed knives straight for Jaskier.

Geralt lunges forward and knocks the knife out of the air with his sword. He turns to finish the bastard off, but the other Witcher has already vanished out the window. With a grumbled “fuck,” Geralt follows the trail of bloodied footprints to the window to see a figure fleeing down the street. He could pursue the assassin, but he doesn’t want to leave Jaskier alone and unprotected.

His eyes meet Jaskier’s across the room. The musician is still clutching the gun and swaying from side to side.

“Put that down,” Geralt tells him. “Before you faint.”

“I’m not going to… oh gods.” Jaskier doubles over and throws up. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having some trouble wrangling the second part of this section, but it should be out in the next couple of days. Sorry for the cliffhanger!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Of Arachnids and Assassins Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second part! Thanks again for your patience, everyone!

Geralt of Rivia is a boxer briefs man. An hour ago, this would have been life-changing information. Right now, Jaskier is too busy trying not to stumble down the mental black hole of _oh gods, I almost died, he almost killed me, oh gods_ to properly appreciate the sight of Geralt pacing back and forth in nothing but boxer briefs, an undershirt, and his silver wolf medallion. The getup leaves very little to the imagination. Jaskier sits on the sofa in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket and cradling a mug of coffee in his hands. He’s not cold, but he can’t stop shivering.

“Sorry for the puke,” he tells the Witcher.

Geralt just grunts. “Are you alright?”

“I think so.”

“You should have left when I told you to.”

“I wasn’t going to go without you,” Jaskier says. “And don’t bring up rule number four again. I am so sick of rule number four.”

“I was going to bring up rule number five. Do everything I say, remember?” The Witcher doesn’t look angry, just resigned.

“There was another Witcher here to kill you. I don’t think rule number five covers that.”

“And what was your plan to help?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Shoot at him and distract him so you could stab him.”

“So you planned to miss?”

“No, but I’m always willing to improvise.”

Geralt’s lips twitch. “Tonight isn’t the first time someone has tried to kill me and it won’t be the last. There was no need for you to risk your life unnecessarily.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t lie to me, Jaskier.”

Jaskier fights down a grin. “Do you know him?”

“No.”

“So Witchers don’t all know each other?”

“I thought I knew all the ones who were still alive, but he isn’t one of them.”

“You know the ones who are still alive?” Jaskier’s fingers itch for his phone, abandoned upstairs in the pockets of his jeans. “Who are they? Where are they?”

Geralt gives him a sidelong glance. “You just had a gun pointed at your heart, and you still have enough wits about you to be nosy.”

“I prefer ‘inquisitive,” Jaskier says. “Do you think that he was the person I saw in Old Cintra?”

“It seems like a good guess.”

“Do you think Stregobor sent him?”

“You said it was in his contract that there would be no collateral damage, so no. Stregobor would not have cared whether your life was spared.”

Jaskier rubs the bruise forming on his chest from the gun. He can still feel the phantom press of cold metal. “He, um, was going to try and make it look like you did it by accident, I think.”

Geralt snorts. “He doesn’t have a very high opinion of his employer’s intelligence.”

Jaskier closes his eyes. The bruises on his neck are throbbing.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” the Witcher asks, actually sounding concerned.

“Yeah, just trying to come to terms with yet another near-death experience.”

“You would have a lot less of those if you stuck to singing about sex and heartbreak, like every other singer.”

“Sex and heartbreak just aren’t as interesting as watching wyverns get decapitated, I guess,” Jaskier says. “You got him pretty good with the sword. Do you think that could have killed him?”

“No. That wasn’t enough to kill a Witcher.”

“If not Stregobor, then who do you think sent him?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Who else have you pissed off lately?”

“What do we count as ‘lately?’ The last month? The last year? The last decade?”

“How have you managed to piss that many people off?”

“I’ve been alive for a long time,” Geralt says.

“Trust me, I’m aware, Geralt.” Jaskier repositions himself so he’s facing Geralt, legs crossed. “Any particularly malevolent enemies?”

“Several. But most of them are long dead or the type to come kill me themselves instead of sending someone else. And none of them would have a rule against collateral damage.”

Jaskier shudders. “Do you think he’ll try again?”

It’s a stupid question, he realizes even as he’s asking it, but part of him wants the Witcher to reassure him that the threat is over and they’re safe. And then maybe pull him into a passionate embrace, because those boxer briefs really leave nothing to the imagination.

“He will,” Geralt says and the ferocious look on his face should really dampen Jaskier’s fantasies about passionate embraces. It has the opposite effect. “But next time, I’m going to kill the bastard.”

***

It’s late the next morning morning when Jaskier gets back to his apartment, bleary-eyed and aching all over after barely getting a wink of sleep and spending most of the morning hunting down his car. He would very much like to spend the hour until he has to leave for work in bed, but Calanthe is waiting outside his apartment door.

“Calanthe!” He pulls up the collar of his jacket to hide the bruises on his neck. “What’s up?”

When Calanthe turns to him, her gray eyes are cold with fury. “You let my granddaughter have dinner with the Butcher of Blaviken?”

It takes Jaskier a moment to realize what she’s talking about. Dinner on Friday night seems like ages ago, instead of just a day and a half. “You knew we were going for pizza.”

“I knew that you—” Calanthe jabs her finger into Jaskier’s sternum for emphasis. “—And Ciri were going for pizza. I knew nothing about a Witcher.”

“Ciri said she had talked to you!”

“And it never occured to you, Jaskier, that a teenage girl might lie to her grandmother to get close to the Witcher she’s been obsessed with for the last three months? You had to know that I would never, ever allow my granddaughter to go anywhere near a Witcher.”

Jaskier’s guilt (because he can’t pretend he’s surprised to find out Ciri lied to Calanthe about dinner) is quickly overshadowed by anger. “I would never let anything happen to Ciri. Geralt would never hurt a kid.”

“He doesn’t need to hurt her. Where Witchers go, death follows. He doesn’t need to be the one holding the ax when it falls. Gods, Jaskier, I know you’re infatuated—don’t give me that look, I see how you look when you talk about him—but no man is worth following death around like an idiot.”

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth, speechless.

“You’re too good to spend your life singing about someone else’s heroic deeds. And I get that you haven’t been in a serious relationship for a long time and you haven’t figured out your purpose in life yet, but you need to grow up, Jaskier. You’re going to get yourself killed if you keep this up.”

“I’m not doing this because I’m lonely!” Jaskier’s voice comes out harsher than he intends. “Look, I know I’ve jumped between jobs a lot, but that’s because nothing felt right until now. What Geralt is doing is important and people need to know about it.”

“Maybe,” Calanthe says. “But that doesn’t mean you need to be involved.”

“But I am involved. Look, I promise, it’s all perfectly safe. Geralt never lets me anywhere near the actual danger.”

“Jaskier, I love you like a son.” Calanthe’s eyes glint and for a second, he thinks she’s about to cry. “But I’m not your mother and at the end of the day, it isn’t my job to protect you from your own bad decisions. It is my job to protect Ciri.”

Jaskier doesn’t remember the last time anyone expressed parental love for him. It makes his chest ache. “Calanthe, you know I love you and Ciri. Look, I won’t bring Geralt around Ciri anymore, okay? I promise. I’m sorry. I won’t even talk about him to her again, if that’s what you want.”

She shakes her head. “Look at your neck, Jaskier. What did that to you? Another ghoul? A drowner?”

“Another Witcher, actually. One that Geralt saved me from.”

Calanthe is still staring at the bruises on Jaskier’s neck. She’s gone paler than death. “A Witcher tried to kill you.”

“Not Geralt,” Jaskier says quickly. “Never Geralt. Geralt doesn’t even know the guy.”

Calanthe takes a deep, shaky breath. “Until this thing with Geralt is over, Jaskier, I don’t want you near Ciri.”

It’s like she’s punched him in the stomach. “Calanthe—”

“As soon as you can promise me you’ll never have anything to do with him again, we can go back to how things used to be. Just the three of us, eating shitty takeout and watching old sitcoms.” Calanthe searches Jaskier’s face and he knows she’s waiting for him to swear right there that he’ll never see Geralt again.

Instead, he says, “If that’s what you think is best.”

Calanthe swallows. “Goodbye, Jaskier.”

Jaskier watches her go into her apartment and stands in the hallway for a long time, completely alone.

***

Two days pass without a word from Geralt or Calanthe. Texts to Geralt go unanswered, and Jaskier doesn’t bother reaching out to Calanthe. He apologized for dinner and said his piece, but he won’t give into her demands to stop working with Geralt. He can’t do it. Though if Geralt ignores another one of his texts, he might reconsider. 

Ciri knocks on his door the night after his argument with Calanthe, tearful and apologetic, but Jaskier sends her away. As angry as he might be with Calanthe, she is Ciri’s grandmother and he won’t betray her trust. He cries afterwards like he hasn’t since the day his father told him not to come back until he gave up on his ridiculous aspirations.

 _“Are you alive?”_ he finally texts Geralt, losing his patience. It’s not unusual for him to go days at a time without talking to the Witcher, but after the events of the other day, Jaskier is on edge. _“Remember, I know where you live now.”_

An hour later, he only gets back one word. _“Yes.”_

Jaskier types out and deletes several replies with varying degrees of pissiness before giving up. He’s alone in his apartment, still in his work uniform. He’s barely touched the frozen pizza he made himself for dinner; he hasn’t had much of an appetite these past couple of days. The overhead light in his living room has burnt out and with just the single table lamp for light, his apartment seems emptier than ever.

There’s a gentle tap on his door. “Jaskier?” It’s Ciri.

Jaskier closes his eyes. He doesn’t have the energy for this today. “Ciri, I already told you, your grandmother said no more hanging out.”

“Please, just open the door. I need to talk to you.” Her voice trembles in a very un-Ciri-like way.

An old girlfriend once told Jaskier that he had the spine of a bendy straw. She probably wasn’t wrong. “Fine, but if Calanthe gets pissed, I am absolutely throwing you under the b—” Jaskier opens the door. “Oh gods.”

Ciri stands in the doorway, looking at him with tear-filled blue eyes. Behind her stands the dark-haired Witcher. He has one hand clasped on Ciri’s shoulder. In the other, he holds one of the glowing daggers. The blade isn’t pointed at Ciri, but the threat in his posture is clear.

“I’m sorry,” Ciri whispers.

“We’re coming in,” the Witcher says.

Slowly, Jaskier backs away, letting them in.

The Witcher kicks the door closed behind him. “Sit on the couch. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Jaskier lowers himself onto the couch. His heart is in his throat as he looks at Ciri’s scared face. “Let her go. She has nothing to do with this.”

“I normally wouldn’t take a hostage for a hostage,” the Witcher says. “It’s messy. I don’t do messy. But I underestimated you the other night and I won’t make that mistake again.”

“No, I think you estimated me perfectly. I’m just a blogger who follows Geralt around. The gun thing was a very uncharacteristic moment of bravery that I swear will not happen again.”

The Witcher smirks. It’s strange how his eyes can be the same yellow as Geralt’s, but seem so much more animalistic. “I’d rather not take my chances.”

“What about the no collateral damage rule? I feel like your employer won’t like you taking a kid hostage.”

“New employer, new rules.” The Witcher brushes Ciri’s hair away from her neck. Jaskier tenses as the man brings the blade to hover by her throat. “Do you know what this knife does?”

“I have an idea.” Jaskier can’t take his eyes away from the softly glowing blade.

“One scratch, no matter how small, and she’ll waste away in a matter of hours. She’ll have violent fits. Hallucinations. She’ll feel like she’s burning from the inside out. It’s a terrible way to go.”

“What do you want?” Jaskier whispers.

“Call Geralt of Rivia. Tell him to come over.”

“Jaskier, don’t!” Ciri cries.

“I think you’re misunderstanding my relationship with Geralt,” Jaskier says. “He’s not going to come over just because I call him. We don’t hang out when there’s not a monster around.”

“You were sleeping in his bed the other night.”

“Yeah, because I was drunk and needed a ride home. Look, we’re not friends. He barely tolerates me most days.”

“Then I have no use for you and the girl.” The Witcher gathers a handful of Ciri’s hair and jerks her head back.

“Stop!” Jaskier leaps to his feet.

“Sit down,” the Witcher growls. “Make the phone call, or I cut her and you get to watch her die slowly.”

“Please, don’t hurt her.”

“You call your Witcher and maybe I won’t.” The Witcher nods to the phone lying next to Jaskier on the couch. “If I hear you trying to give him a hint, you know what happens.”

“He doesn’t always pick up when I call.”

“Pray that he does.”

There’s no other options. Hands shaking, Jaskier calls Geralt. To his surprise, Geralt answers after just one ring. “Jaskier, I told you I was alive.”

Jaskier swallows down the lump in his throat at the sound of the Witcher’s gruff voice. “Hey, buddy, do you want to come over for dinner?”

“Buddy?”

“Ciri and I made spaghetti and meatballs.”

“I’ll pass.”

Fuck. What happens to Ciri if Geralt just refuses to come over? “Come on, Ciri wants to hear more about that giant scorpion we fought last week.”

“Do you mean the spider?”

“And you still haven’t helped me put together that bookshelf. You promised.”

“He’s there, isn’t he?”

Jaskier puts as much perkiness as he can into his voice. “Yes.”

“Is Ciri there too?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t do anything stupid, Jaskier.” Geralt hangs up.

“He’s coming over,” Jaskier tells the assassin. “I did what you want. Let Ciri go.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then at least get that knife away from her. Please.”

Abruptly, the Witcher shoves Ciri towards Jaskier. She lets out a little shriek of surprise and stumbles. Jaskier leaps to his feet to catch her, placing himself between her and the Witcher. The assassin advances on them and Jaskier takes a step back, pushing Ciri along behind him.

“It’s quite demoralizing, having an untrained little shit hold your own gun on you,” the assassin tells Jaskier.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says. “Really, really sorry.”

“Are you?” The Witcher turns his blade over in his hands, studying it. Suddenly, he brings it to Jaskier’s throat. “Remember, all it takes it one little cut.”

Jaskier doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even swallow.

“I really only need one hostage,” the Witcher says. “And who do you think makes a better hostage, a young girl or an irritating, mediocre musician?”

“Stop!” Ciri cries.

“Going to beg for your life again?”the Witcher asks, grinning. Jaskier decides that he vastly prefers silent, scowly Witchers.

“If you’re going to do it, please just don’t do it in front of Ciri,” Jaskier says. He’s trying to keep a brave face for Ciri’s sake, but the longer the knife rests against his throat, the harder it gets.

“No!” Ciri screams and it’s like Jaskier feels the pressure of her words on his back. The glass of soda sitting on the end table trembles. 

The Witcher points the knife at her. “Don’t do that again.”

“If you hurt him, I will scream and I will keep screaming until everyone in the entire building has heard and comes running.” Her eyes are still bright with tears, but she meets his gaze steadily. “And if you kill me to shut me up, then you won’t have a hostage when Geralt gets here and he’ll kick your ass. You need two hostages. You need me alive to keep Jaskier in line and you need him alive to keep me in line.”

“Why would I need to keep you in line, little one?”

Ciri doesn’t answer, just glares daggers at him.

“You look familiar,” the assassin says. “What’s your name?”

She juts her chin out. “Cirilla Ryan.”

“Ryan. I don’t know that surname.”

“Why would you?” Her tone drips with disdain.

“Ciri, do not antagonize the large man with the cursed knife,” Jaskier says through gritted teeth. He doesn’t want the assassin’s attention on Ciri any longer.

The Witcher looks between Jaskier and Ciri. “Both of you, sit down. Hands where I can see them. Don’t talk to each other. Don’t touch each other. If I think either of you is going to run, I kill the other. Understood?”

Jaskier sits down on one end of the couch, Ciri on the other. He can feel Ciri try to catch his eye and tries to offer her a reassuring smile, but his facial muscles don’t seem to be working. He’s under no illusion that this Witcher will let them live after he deals with Geralt. If he kills Geralt, Jaskier and Ciri will be next. They’ve seen his face. He has no reason to keep them alive.

He has to get Ciri out of this unharmed. He can’t do this to Calanthe. He can’t let Ciri get killed because of him, like her grandmother feared. If he can get himself and Geralt out of this alive too, that would be a nice bonus. He watches as the assassin stands very still in front of them, staring at the door with a calm intensity.

Suddenly, the Witcher tenses in a way that reminds Jaskier uncomfortably of Geralt. “Come here,” the assassin orders Jaskier.

Jaskier hesitates.

“Remember what I told you. The girl doesn’t have to die today.”

Jaskier goes to him and lets the Witcher position him as a shield in front of the door. The Witcher holds the knife against Jaskier’s lower back. Jaskier is very aware of the press of steel through the rough polyester of his polo shirt. He stands there for what feels like an eternity, feeling the Witcher’s breath on his ear and wondering if he’ll die from blood loss or the curse when he gets stabbed. He hopes blood loss, but he doubts he’ll be given a choice.

The floorboards outside the apartment door squeak. “Jaskier?” Geralt calls.

The assassin presses the knife harder against Jaskier’s back, making him gasp. 

“Come in,” Jaskier says, voice shaking.

The door opens and Geralt stands there. He has his sword strapped to his back, but his hands are empty. Jaskier watches him take in the sight of the other Witcher and Jaskier in front of him, with Ciri on the couch. His face registers no alarm, but Jaskier sees a muscle in his jaw jump.

“Weapons on the ground,” the Witcher behind Jaskier says. “Or he dies.”

“Geralt—“ Jaskier begins, then breaks off as the assassin brings the knife to his throat.

Geralt doesn’t move. “Your business here is with me. There’s no reason to get two humans involved.”

“You’re right,” the other Witcher says. “I only need one of them. I can kill this one, if you’d prefer.”

“If you hurt either of them, you won’t leave here alive.”

The assassin laughs. “I heard so much about you at Kaer Morhen. Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf. I always hoped our paths would cross someday, but they never did. And now we finally meet and you’re nothing. You live in a townhouse in a city on the edge of the world. You carry around a pet.” He jostles Jaskier, nearly knocking Jaskier into the blade. “It’s pathetic.”

Geralt’s mouth twists. “If I’m so pathetic, why do you need a human shield to face me?”

“Sword on the ground, Butcher, unless you want to watch this human die screaming.”

“No, don’t,” Jaskier says quickly, desperate to get the words out before his throat gets slit. “Just get Ciri out and go. I’m fine. Just go.”

“Shut up.” The assassin presses the knife to his mouth, silencing him.

Jaskier tries to urge Geralt to run with his eyes, but Geralt drops his sword to the ground without looking at Jaskier. “I’m unarmed,” Geralt says. “Now, are you going to stand there and talk about killing me all day, or are you going to act?”

Jaskier closes his eyes. He can’t watch what happens next. 

“Now kick it over here,” the other Witcher says.

There’s the scrape of metal against the hardwood floor as Geralt complies.

“You’re really going to let me kill you.” The assassin sounds like he hardly believes it. “All for a human. You’ve gone soft.”

“I remember the vows I took at Kaer Morhen.”

“Kaer Morhen is gone. Most of our brothers are gone with it. Some of us needed to find a way to survive.”

“Survive?” Geralt growls, his usual calm giving way to fury. “You’re threatening an innocent man with a knife. You’ve taken coin to kill a fellow Witcher. If you can only survive by disgracing Witchers, then you should have fallen with the rest. Now let him go and face me yourself, you son of a whore.”

Jaskier expects to die at that moment. He braces himself for blood and pain, but instead he’s shoved roughly to the ground as the two Witchers hurl themselves at each other. Jaskier scrambles backwards, out of the line of fire, and watches as Geralt dodges a swipe from the assassin’s knife and sends a wave of magic at the other Witcher. Their eyes are black and Geralt’s face is twisted into a snarl.

On the other side of the struggling Witchers, Ciri is still frozen on the couch, watching the battle. Jaskier meets her eyes and mouths, “Go!” at her. Her best chance at escape is while Geralt is keeping the assassin occupied. She shakes her head. Jaskier knows that she’s as unlikely to leave without him as he is to leave without Geralt. Gods damn it.

Geralt grunts as the assassin swipes at him again, the cursed blade coming perilously close to Geralt’s face, and Jaskier looks around frantically for Geralt’s sword. It’s lying by the door. Jaskier wonders if there’s a way for him to get Ciri out of the apartment and get Geralt’s sword back to him without getting killed. The only way to Ciri or the sword would be to walk past two Witchers locked in a battle to the death, which seems like a phenomenally stupid plan.

Jaskier stands up and takes a step towards Ciri.

The assassin whirls on him, teeth bared into a feral grin, and Jaskier freezes. Geralt lunges between them and the two Witchers grapple. Jaskier can see the light of the purple blade flashing but can’t tell if it’s made contact. They move so quickly, Jaskier can’t tell which one of them has the upper hand until Geralt lets out a grunt of pain and stumbles backwards. The assassin follows, knife raised.

“No!” Jaskier starts forwards, not knowing what he’s going to do, but knowing that he can’t let that blade get anywhere near Geralt.

“Jaskier, Geralt, get down and cover your ears!” Ciri shouts.

Jaskier looks at her uncomprehendingly. She’s standing up, looking terrified but determined. And then Geralt slams into him. Jaskier feels all the breath leave his lungs as Geralt pins him against the floor and slaps his hands over Jaskier’s ears. Instinctively, Jaskier tries to shove him off, but it’s like trying to move a brick wall.

Ciri screams.

Jaskier feels the scream in his bones. Even with Geralt’s hands covering his ears, it shoots through his brain like the world’s worst migraine. He squeezes his eyes shut against the agony and covers Geralt’s ears with his own hands. Vaguely, he’s aware of the sound of glass shattering and wood splintering, but the only sound he can focus on is the scream. It seems to last for a lifetime.

And then it’s over.

Geralt roll off of him and Jaskier opens his eyes. His apartment is destroyed. The glass sliding glass door is shattered. His kitchen table and chairs are splintered. Everything that was on the kitchen counter has been knocked off. His couch has been thrown against the wall. The assassin lies crumpled in the wreckage of the table, his body twisted into an unnatural angle. Yellow eyes stare emptily at the ceiling. Jaskier will definitely not be getting his security deposit back now.

Jaskier reaches up and touches his nose. It’s bleeding. “Holy shit.”

“Are you okay?” Ciri scrambles over and drops to her knees next to them. “Oh, gods, I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do! I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

Jaskier sits up and pulls her into a hug. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt?”

“No, I'm okay.” Her voice is muffled by his shoulder.

“Oh, thank the gods,” he whispers and turns to Geralt. “Geralt?”

“I’m fine.” Geralt’s nose and ears are bleeding, but he looks more disgruntled than anything. “Well done, Your Highness.”

Ciri’s cheeks turn pink. “You know?”

“There aren’t many families where the ability to kill with a scream is passed down.”

Jaskier looks between Ciri and Geralt. “Wait, what?”

The door flies open and Jaskier flinches, but it’s just Calanthe. Jaskier watches her take in the scene in front of her: the dead assassin, the destroyed furniture, Ciri and Jaskier huddled in the corner with Geralt. Her face goes very white, then very red. “Ciri? I heard you scream from outside! What the hell is going on?”

At the sight of her grandmother, Ciri bursts into tears. “Gran, I’m sorry, I waited as long as I could, but he was about to kill them and I couldn’t… I couldn’t…” The rest of her words are lost in sobs.

Calanthe rushes over and pulls Ciri into a hug. Over Ciri’s head, she asks Jaskier, “Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier is still confused and terrified, but everyone except for the assassin seems to be unhurt. “Yeah, we’re fine. Geralt and Ciri saved the day.” He turns to Geralt and finds the Witcher slumped against the wall. “Geralt?”

“I’m fine.” Geralt’s forehead glistens with sweat and his breathing is shallow. “Just a scratch.”

Jaskier goes cold all over. “Show me.”

Geralt raises his arm and Jaskier sees the wound on the inside of his left wrist. It is just a scratch, long and shallow. It oozes tiny droplets of blood. 

“Did he cut you with the dagger?” Jaskier knows it’s a stupid question. The dagger was the only blade involves in the battle. But he can’t let go of the desperate, stupid hope that it really is just a scratch and the assassin is dead, so everyone will be fine.

“Just a scratch,” Geralt says again.

Calanthe kneels on his other side. “Was the blade cursed?”

Jaskier nods, unable to speak.

“Do you have any of your potions?” Calanthe asks Geralt.

“They’re in Roach,” he says, his breathing labored. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever seen Geralt fight for breath, not even after a strenuous battle. “The red one will slow the progress, but it’s not a cure.”

“What else can we do?” Jaskier’s voice shakes. “The assassin said the curse would only take a few hours to be fatal.”

“Longer for me. Maybe a day. Two days, with the potion.”

“That’s not reassuring!” Jaskier wants to shake the Witcher. He wants to kiss him. He wants to travel back in time and find a way to get Ciri to safety without calling Geralt.

“Jaskier, listen,” Geralt says. “You need to get me to Aretuza. You need to find Yennefer of Vengerberg. She can help.”

“What is Aretuza?” Jaskier asks. “And who is Yennefer?”

Geralt doesn’t answer. Instead his eyes roll back in his head and his head lolls to the side as he passes out.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...another cliffhanger. Sorry, I'm a monster.
> 
> But next chapter, there will be Yennefer and company, if that's any consolation.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	6. Of Sorceresses and Secrets Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier, Calanthe, and Ciri take Geralt to Aretuza to recover from his injuries. Jaskier finds out some surprising things about his next-door neighbors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yet again, this chapter spun out of my control and became way longer than intended, so I'm breaking it into two parts. Part II will be posted in the next couple of days!
> 
> Also, I'm playing fast and loose with the canon concerning the fall of Cintra and Ciri's powers. I've only seen the show and read the first book, so I'm not entirely sure what the canon explanation is for how her powers work.

The only good thing about Geralt being unconscious is that he can’t see Calanthe driving Roach. Calanthe is heedless of traffic laws, or the laws of physics, for that matter. Every time she zips around another car or slams on the accelerator, Jaskier grits his teeth and reminds himself that Geralt has way worse problems right now.

“Gran!” Ciri squeaks as Calanthe cuts across four lanes of traffic.

“We have to get all the way across the Continent in less than a day, Ciri. There’s no time for things like yielding.”

“We didn’t escape an assassin just to end up flattened by an eighteen wheeler!”

“I’d like to see the eighteen wheeler try.”

In the backseat, Jaskier sits with an unconscious Witcher half on top of him, cradling Geralt’s head in his lap. Geralt’s face is slick with sweat. Occasionally, he’ll open his eyes and look up at Jaskier uncomprehendingly. Most of the time, his eyes are yellow. Sometimes, they’re black. They never seem to actually see Jaskier.

“Where is Aretuza?” Jaskier asks, because he needs something to focus on besides Geralt’s gasping breaths.

“It’s on an island about as far north as you can get without falling off the edge of the world,” Calanthe says. “We should be there by noon tomorrow, so long as we don’t make too many stops.”

“I don’t know if we have until noon tomorrow, Cal.”

Her eyes meet his in the rearview mirror. “I’m doing the best I can here, but unless this tank has wings, we’re out of luck.”

Jaskier looks over at Ciri. “Can’t you, I don’t know, teleport us there?”

“That’s not how it works,” Ciri says sadly. “I’m not a mage.”

“Then _what_ are you?”

Ciri flinches and Jaskier immediately regrets the word choice. 

“She’s a fourteen year old girl,” Calanthe says. “One who should have stayed at home so she doesn’t miss school tomorrow.”

Ciri turns on her, outraged. “Like hell am I going to stay home and go to school after everything that happened tonight!”

“Geralt called you Your Highness,” Jaskier says before Calanthe can snap back, hoping to keep them on track.

Calanthe curses under her breath. “Ciri and I are all that remains of the Cintran royal family.”

Jaskier blinks at the back of her head. “But they all committed suicide during the seige of Old Cintra.”

“All except for one. The youngest princess, Fiona. She escaped and grew up to have a daughter, who had a daughter, who had a daughter. The gift has been passed down through the generations. Pavetta was the first of us to have it since my great-grandmother and she passed it to Ciri.”

“But what is it?”

“It’s primal magic. We’re not sure where it comes from or why we have it. The stories vary. It was either a gift from the gods or a curse from an angry wizard or someone ate an apple they shouldn’t have. Either way, the results are the same. When Ciri screams… well, you saw what happens.”

“It was pretty badass,” Jaskier says, which earns him a smile from Ciri.

“Yes, badass,” Calanthe says. “And extremely dangerous. I don’t think I need to tell you what would happen if the government found out that our family didn’t all die at Cintra, or if they found out what Ciri can do.”

Jaskier shudders. “No, you don’t need to tell me.”

Geralt moans softly and Jaskier closes his eyes. He wants to scream. “What is Aretuza? Why does Geralt need to go there?”

“It was the place where they trained sorceresses, before Nilfgaard took down the Brotherhood,” Calanthe says. “It still stands, because even the emperor doesn’t want to make an enemy of the sorceresses who are left. This Yennefer must be one of them.”

“And you think they’ll just let us walk in?”

“Probably not. But that’s a problem for about fourteen hours from now.”

***

_Geralt dreams of Renfri, because he always dreams of Renfri. The look on her face when she saw her men dead on the ground. The way she said, “You chose.” She wasn’t surprised. Wasn’t outraged at the betrayal. Just resigned. Geralt was just another in the long line of men who had used her and tossed her aside._

_He dreams of the moment the blade entered her throat, the way those soft brown eyes went wide._

_And then it’s a pair of blue eyes staring up at him. Jaskier lies bleeding in his arms in Renfri’s place. He looks up at Geralt in confusion. “You chose,” he says, but it’s Renfri’s voice that comes out of his mouth. “You chose.”_

***

“Renfri,” Geralt whispers.

“Who is Renfri?” Ciri asks. They’re sitting at a gas station somewhere in the middle of the Continent, while Calanthe is inside getting them something to eat. It’s three AM and Jaskier’s eyes ache with tiredness, but he’s terrified that as soon as he closes his eyes, Geralt will take a turn for the worse. Not that there’s much Jaskier can do besides murmur reassuring things and smooth the Witcher’s hair out of his eyes. Geralt has stilled in the last few hours, though Jaskier isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“I don’t know.” Jaskier hopes she’s a beloved and long-dead aunt, or maybe a dog. “You should try to get some sleep, Ciri..”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep after today.” She twists in the front seat to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

“You saved our lives, Ciri. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“For lying to you. I wanted to tell you so many times, but Gran always said no. She said it was too dangerous.”

“She’s probably right.”

“I told someone once. My homeroom teacher. A week later, they came for us and my parents died.” Ciri’s voice is so matter-of-fact, it hurts.

“So the boating accident—”

“The only accidental thing was that I lived. My mom didn’t use her powers because she didn’t want to sink the boat with all of us on it. But after my parents died, I didn’t care if I drowned. So I screamed and brought the whole boat down.”

The thought of a ten year old Ciri making the decision that it didn’t matter whether she lived or died makes Jaskier’s heart hurt. “Gods, Ciri.”

She shrugs. “It was a long time ago.”

“That’s why your grandmother didn’t want you near Geralt,” Jaskier says.

Ciri nods. “He definitely encountered my ancestors at some point. Gran always says I’m Fiona’s spitting image, just like my mom. She was afraid he’d recognize me.”

“He may have. But he never would have said anything.” Jaskier reaches down to brush a nonexistent lock of hair out of Geralt’s eyes.

“You really like him, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.” Jaskier’s voice cracks.

“He’ll be okay, Jaskier. We’ll save him.”

***

_”I’m not doing this anymore,” Yennefer tells him. “I can’t spend another century competing with a dead woman.”_

_Geralt wants to tell her that he’s never wanted her to compete with Renfri, but his voice won’t work._

_“Blaviken was two hundred years ago, Geralt,” she says. “You chose. You need to move on.”_

_“I choose you,” he wants to tell her, but Yennefer is turning away._

_But it’s not Yennefer standing in front of him anymore and they’re not standing in the cottage in Lyria where they lived for so many years. Instead, he’s in Jaskier’s little apartment and it’s the musician turning away from him._

_“I’m not doing this anymore,” Jaskier tells him, and then he’s gone._

***

“Shh, come on.” Jaskier attempts to tip the last of the red potion down the Witcher’s throat, but Geralt coughs and splutters. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

Geralt already looks like a corpse. His eyes are sunk into his head and his face is chalk white. Jaskier’s hands shake as he tries again. This time, he gets most of the potion in Geralt’s mouth and only a little on Roach’s leather seats. Geralt is really going to kill him when he wakes up.

“How much longer?” he asks Calanthe softly. Ciri is fast asleep in the passenger seat; she finally succumbed to exhaustion shortly after dawn. 

“An hour, maybe two. I’m not entirely sure where it is. Or how we get there, for that matter.” Calanthe’s voice is heavy with tiredness. Even after nearly fifteen hours of driving with only a handful of quick stops, she won’t let Jaskier take the wheel, claiming he “drives like a damn grandma.”

“Why are you doing this?” Jaskier is tired enough to ask the question that’s been nagging him all night. “Why are you coming all this way, and bringing Ciri with you, when I know you didn’t want him near Ciri?”

“Because he saved your lives last night,” Calanthe says. “This happened while he was protecting you two. I’m never going to be happy about this Witcher business, Jask, but I’m also not an ungrateful asshole. Also, you may need Ciri and me to get through to Aretuza. If you had gone alone, the chances of you getting incinerated were much higher.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

“Just do your best to keep him alive for the next couple of hours. And then the sorceresses can take it from there.”

“I’m doing my best.” Jaskier leans down so his forehead is touching Geralt’s. “Come on, Geralt. Stay alive. Please.”

***

_Geralt is following someone through the woods. One moment, it’s Renfri. Then it’s Yennefer. Then it’s Jaskier. Every time he loses sight of them, they change shape. He calls for them, but they don’t turn around. Yennefer has just vanished into the trees, her dark hair floating behind her, when someone else steps out of the woods._

_“Oh, there you are,” Stregobor says. “I’ve been scrying for you.”_

_Geralt blinks down at the sorcerer, confused._

_“Your brother Witcher did a number on you, didn’t he? Your life force is weak. Tell me, is that delightful musician still alive? I hope so. I’m looking forward to the mournful ballad he writes about your demise.”_

_“What the fuck are you doing here?” Geralt manages to growl._

_“Looking for you, of course. Now, wake up, Butcher. Open your eyes so I can see where you are.”_

***

Geralt’s eyes snap open. They’re entirely black. For the first time since he told Jaskier to go to Aretuza, he looks directly into Jaskier’s face.

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice cracks with relief. “Thank gods, the potion must be helping. We’re almost there. At least, we're pretty sure we are. The GPS has failed us.”

“Get out of my head,” Geralt snarls and locks his hands around Jaskier’s throat.

Jaskier hears Ciri shout his name and the car swerves. Geralt is obviously weakened, but he’s still stronger than any human man. Jaskier remembers the assassin saying that the knife would cause hallucinations and fits. Who does Geralt think he is right now? Who does he think is in his head?

“Geralt, it’s me,” Jaskier manages to wheeze. “It’s Jaskier. Please, stop.”

The black in Geralt’s eyes recedes. “Jaskier? What—”

There’s a hum and the Witcher twitches, then slumps sideways.

Jaskier looks up in disbelief at Calanthe. “Did you just taze him?”

She holds up the stun gun triumphantly. “Sure did.”

“He’s dying! You can’t taze a dying man!”

“I can when he’s strangling you. They can heal at Aretuza, but they can’t resurrect the dead.”

Jaskier checks Geralt’s pulse. He still feels Geralt’s molasses slow heartbeat against his fingertips. “He wasn’t going to hurt me.”

“Oh, so he was strangling you for fun? If that’s what you’re into, fine, but save it for when there aren’t children around.”

“Ew, Gran, grossssss,” Ciri whines.

“I think we’re here,” Calanthe says and for the first time, Jaskier realizes that the car has stopped. “Come on, you two, help me get him out of the car. We’re going to have a bit of a walk.”

***

_The wyvern has Jaskier pinned to the ground, its maw only inches from his face. Jaskier’s breath bursts out in desperate, terrified sobs. He looks around wildly, as if searching for a weapon or help. Geralt starts towards them, drawing his sword from the scabbard at his back._

_“Ah, so this is the night you met,” Stregobor says from behind him. “I was wondering.”_

_“Geralt!” Jaskier sobs, which isn’t right. Jaskier and Geralt don’t know each other yet._

_Geralt raises the sword over the wyvern’s head, then freezes._

_“Not this time, Butcher,” Stregobor says. “I want to see what happens next.”_

_The wyvern strikes. Blood sprays across the ground and Jaskier screams Geralt’s name._

***

“How the fuck are we supposed to get him there?” While Ciri and Calanthe are ostensibly helping, the brunt of carrying Geralt has fallen to Jaskier. His knees feel like jelly as he looks at the very rickety rope bridge that leads to what looks like the haunted castle in every horror movie he’s ever seen.

“We walk, I guess.” But Calanthe looks dubious.

“Okay, how are we supposed to get him there without dropping him over the side and/or falling to our deaths?”

“I’ll go ahead,” Ciri says.

“Like hell,” Jaskier says at the same time Calanthe snaps, “No you will not, young lady.”

Ciri rolls her eyes. “I’m the lightest and fastest of us. And they used to train girls to be sorceresses here, right? So they might not kill me as soon as they see me. They’ll definitely kill Jaskier. No offense, Jaskier.”

“Ciri, that bridge doesn’t look stable at all.” Jaskier eyes it dubiously.

“No, it doesn’t.” With that, Ciri turns and steps onto the bridge.

“Ciri!” Calanthe starts to follow her.

“If you come after me, Gran, the bridge is going to wobble, and I’m more likely to plunge to my death.”

Calanthe’s mouth opens and closes in outrage. “You are so incredibly grounded, young lady!” To Jaskier, she adds, “She can be such a stubborn little shit sometimes.”

Despite his exhaustion and his terror for Geralt and Ciri, Jaskier can’t help but smile. “Gods, I have no idea where she gets that from.”

***

_The bruxa has a hand wrapped around Jaskier’s throat, holding him between her and Geralt. “Drop the sword, or I kill him.”_

_“I don’t think you will.” Geralt ignores the naked fear on the musician's face._

_There’s a snap as the bruxa breaks Jaskier’s neck._

_The logical side of Geralt’s brain knows that this is impossible. Not even Geralt could break someone’s neck one handed. But Jaskier lies on the ground, mouth opened in shock and eyes staring, and the logical side of Geralt’s brain isn’t the one in control._

_Behind him, Stregobor chuckles. “Oh, I like this game.”_

***

Ciri is halfway across the rope bridge when she realizes that this may have been a really, really dumb idea. Gran and Jaskier are just fleshy blobs on the horizon now, with Geralt a crumpled heap at their feet. A gust of wind makes the bridge rock and Ciri grabs onto the flimsy ropes that act as a railing. She feels the sausage roll she had for breakfast roiling in her stomach.

Ciri waits until the bridge stops swinging before she starts to move again. Her heart hammers in her throat. This is the only way to save Geralt. If she doesn’t do this, Jaskier will lose Geralt. She can’t do that to Jaskier. She keeps going, one step in front of another, trying her hardest to focus on the wooden planks and not the sharp rocks sticking out of the water far below. 

She’s almost to the other side when she steps down and the wood splinters beneath her foot. Ciri pitches forward. She tries to grab onto something, but her hand slips off the rough rope and she’s falling. For an instant, Ciri plunges towards the water, kicking and screaming, even though she knows kicking and screaming is useless. She’s going to fall, and she’s either going to have her brains smashed by a rock, or she’s going to drown like her parents.

And then she feels a yank around her waist and she freezes mid-air. For a moment, Ciri hangs upside down, feet peddling uselessly towards the sky. Below, the water is the kind of dark that promises a fanged, tentacled monster lurking below the surface. It’s oddly beautiful as it hammers against the rocks.

Ciri lets out a shriek as she feels another yank and she’s propelled through the air, this time upwards. She lands on the rocky ground and lets out a shuddering sob of relief. She’s glad that her hair covers her face so no one will see.

“You must have gotten turned around, child.”

Still shaking, Ciri looks up and finds a woman standing over her, flanked by two men. The woman could be anywhere from Jaskier’s age to Gran’s, with dark hair pulled back into a bun and a pretty face. She wears an old-fashioned red dress with a high collar that looks like something from one of the period dramas Calanthe makes Ciri watch sometimes.

“Is this Aretuza?” Ciri’s voice sounds much younger than fourteen. She hates it.

The woman just smiles down at her. “My men will escort you safely back to the mainland.”

“Are you Yennefer?” Ciri demands as the two men step forward.

The pleasantly neutral expression on the woman’s face flickers. “How do you know that name?”

“I’m here to see Yennefer of Vengerberg. My friend is hurt. He needs a healer.”

“There are plenty of healers on the Continent. You just suffered quite a shock, my dear. There is no Yennefer and no Aretuza.”

Ciri’s head starts to hurt and she knows the woman is trying to work some kind of mind magic on her. “No!” She doesn’t mean to put power into the shout, but a little creeps in. The woman takes a step back, as if slapped. To Ciri’s shock, images of the men flicker and vanish.

She stares at the spot where one of the men were. “They were illusions.”

“Who are you?” the woman asks.

Ciri raises her chin and looks the sorceress directly in the eye. “My name is Ciri. I’m here with Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher. And I need to see Yennefer now.”

***

_Geralt watches the cockatrice swoop down on Jaskier. Jaskier swings his guitar at it, but he’s too slow. Geralt stands on the rooftop, watching blood stain the cobblestones as Jaskier screams for help._

__

__

_“You know this is how it’s going to end for him,” Stregobor says softly in Geralt’s ear. “It’s only a matter of time.”_

***

Jaskier’s heart hasn’t left his throat since the moment Ciri fell. Even though she’s safely on solid land on the other side of the rope bridge, he hasn’t stopped shaking. He can’t make out much, just that Ciri is talking to someone, a woman in a long red dress. There were two men, but they vanished. His stomach gives a sick lurch when Ciri and the woman vanish into the castle.

“She’s okay,” he tells Calanthe. “They wouldn’t have stopped her from falling just to hurt her now.”

Calanthe doesn’t take her eyes off the doors her granddaughter just vanished through. “We shouldn’t have let her go alone.”

“There was no ‘let.’ Ciri just did.” Jaskier is aware of every one of Geralt’s ragged breaths. The Witcher lies on the gravel ground behind him, too still and too pale. Jaskier is terrified that at any moment, he’s going to turn around and Geralt won’t be breathing anymore.

“Where is she?” Calanthe asks. “She’s been in there too long.”

“Look, it’s Ciri.” Jaskier tries to sound reassuring. “She could charm the teeth off a nekker. She’ll be okay.”

But Ciri is gone for an agonizingly long time. Jaskier goes to sit on the ground next to Geralt, studying the Witcher’s expression. Even in sleep, Geralt doesn’t look peaceful. His brow is furrowed and his mouth is a thin line of tension. Behind his closed eyelids, Jaskier can see his eyes rolling in his head. Jaskier remembers the confusion and anger on the Witcher’s face when he briefly woke up and wonders what kind of nightmares are plaguing Geralt.

A portal opens up directly in front of them and Jaskier scrambles backwards with a surprised squawk. He watches, wide-eyed, as the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his life steps from the portal. She has long, lustrous black hair, violet eyes, and an expression on her face that promises a protracted, painful death to anyone who gets in her way. Her gaze flickers over Calanthe and Jaskier, finally landing on Geralt’s motionless form.

Not taking her eyes off of Geralt, she says, “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

***

_Geralt and Jaskier are in Geralt’s bed and Geralt is strangling Jaskier. He leans over the musician, immune to the desperate blows raining down on his arms and chest. Geralt stares into the musician’s confused and horrified face and wants to let go, but his hands aren’t obeying his mind. Jaskier gives one final shudder and goes still. Geralt closes his empty blue eyes._

_“See, was that so hard?” Stregobor asks._

_The scene shifts. They’re in Jaskier’s apartment now and Jaskier stands in front of him with the assassin. The assassin’s cursed blade is at Jaskier’s throat. “Geralt, help me,” Jaskier begs. “Please.”_

_Geralt has seen Jaskier die in a hundred different ways today. “What do you hope to gain from this, Stregobor? I was having nightmares before you showed up. All you had to do was let them run their course.”_

_“I want to see exactly what happened next, Butcher. I want to see how your fellow Witcher died. Show me, and I’ll leave you be. I’ll even give you happy dreams for your last hours alive.”_

_Geralt can feel the memory starting to form. He can picture Ciri’s pale, frightened face and the skull-shattering scream. Firmly, he pushes the memory out of his mind. Instead, he pictures himself casting the sign of Aard. The Witcher holding Jaskier goes flying backwards and lands against the wall. There’s a snap as his neck breaks._

_“I know that’s not how it happened,” Stregobor says. “The magic on the body wasn’t Witcher magic. Show me how it happened.”_

_The assassin is standing in front of Geralt again, blade pressed against a weeping Jaskier’s neck. The assassin cuts Jaskier’s throat. The musician makes a gurgling noise and falls._

_Geralt casts Aard agan. The assassin’s neck breaks again. The assassin slits Jaskier’s throat again. The cycle repeats. With each time, Jaskier’s pleas grow more desperate and his death becomes more violent._

_“When I wake up, I’m going to kill you,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s dying figure lies twitching and bleeding at his feet._

_“No, Butcher,” Stregobor says. “When you wake up you’re going to tell me where you are and who’s with you. Now, go on.”_

***

“His pulse is elevated,” Triss, the curly-haired sorceress, says.

“Elevated?” Jaskier asks, thinking of Geralt’s slow heartbeat.

“Forty beats per minute is very elevated for a Witcher.” Triss offers him a kind smile. Of the four sorceresses from Aretuza Jaskier has met so far, she’s by far his favorite.

The inside of Aretuza is as unwelcoming as the outside. The rooms are large, barren, and drafty. Jaskier wishes he brought something heavier than his denim jacket; he shivers every time a gust of wind rattles the windows. The sorceress brought them to a small bedroom and now Yennefer, Triss, and Jaskier stand around Geralt’s prone form while two of the illusionary guards stand by the door. From somewhere in the castle, Jaskier can hear Ciri’s excited voice echoing. At least someone is having fun.

“Tell me about the knife.” On Geralt’s other side, Yennefer doesn’t look up from her examination of the Witcher. There’s an intimacy to the way she touches him that makes something knot in Jaskier’s stomach.

“It was an assassin, another Witcher. He said that the knife would make us waste away slowly with one scratch and that we’d have violent fits and hallucinations.”

“Where is the knife?”

“Back at my apartment in Posada.”

Yennefer’s head snaps up. “You left it?”

“It does this to a Witcher with just a scratch.” Jaskier gestures to Geralt. “None of us were going to touch it.”

“Wonderful,” Yennefer growls. “It didn’t occur to you to think that it might make it easier for me to heal the curse if I had cursed object at hand?”

“I haven’t dealt with many curses,” Jaskier says defensively.

“Haven’t you? I find that hard to believe.” Yennefer continues her ministrations.

“Can’t you just portal to get it?”

“I could, but then I wouldn’t have enough power to heal so much as a paper cut, as you would know if you knew anything about magic. I don’t tell you how to make artisanal smoothies, or whatever it is you do for a living.”

“I’m a blogger. And a musician. And I guess I work at a grocery store too.”

Yennefer snorts.

Triss shoots Yennefer a stern look that the other sorceress pointedly ignores. “What have his symptoms been like?”

“He’s been unconscious since right after it happened. He’s been sweating, shaking. I think he’s having nightmares. And at one point he woke up and tried to strangle me. I don’t think he knew who I was.”

“Did you give him his potions?” Yennefer asks.

“Yeah, the red one, like he said. We gave him a dose right after the injury, and another one a couple of hours ago.” Jaskier hesitates, then asks, “Can you fix him?”

“Of course,” Triss says at the same time Yennefer says, “I don’t know yet.” The two women exchange glances and Yennefer adds, “It seems to be a basic curse, but it’s progressed farther than we would be able to treat in a normal human. However, Geralt is a Witcher, so his prognosis is slightly more hopeful.”

“He’s been through worse than this,” Triss adds kindly.

Geralt’s eyes open, still completely black. Remembering the strangling, Jaskier takes a step back, but the Witcher just looks slowly around the room.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg and Triss Merigold.” Something about his voice is strange and remote. “And the musician. I’m at Aretuza, aren’t I?”

Yennefer puts her hand against his forehead and murmurs a word. Geralt slumps back into the bed.

“What did you do?” Jaskier demands.

“I put him back to sleep.” For the first time, she looks worried. “Didn’t you see, that wasn’t just Geralt. There’s something else in there with him.”

***

_”He brought you to Aretuza,” Stregobor says. “Smart boy.”_

_Jaskier’s apartment has been replaced by utter darkness, so all-encompassing that not even Geralt’s Witcher vision can see through it. Stregobor’s voice is his only company._

_“I will never tell you what you want to know, Stregobor.” Geralt hates mind games. He prefers an enemy who tries to stab or shoot him. This slithering around in his mind makes him want to punch something, but there’s nothing to punch in this dream._

_“Oh, I know, Butcher.” Stregobor’s voice is low and amused. “But you weren't the only one there. I'm sure your musician will be much more helpful.”_

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize again for the cliffhanger, but let's be real, if I were actually sorry, I would stop doing it.  
> Thanks for reading! You are all lovely and all your kind comments make me so happy!


	7. Of Sorceresses and Secrets Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwelcome visitor comes to Aretuza. Yennefer loses what's left of her patience.

“What do you mean, there’s something else in there with him?” Jaskier looks between Geralt’s prone form and the two sorceresses. “He looks…” He’s going to say fine, but trails off. Geralt looks anything but fine; he would look like a corpse, if he weren’t twitching slightly.

“Someone has piggybacked on whatever curse was in the Witcher’s blade and they’re using it to infiltrate Geralt’s mind,” Yennefer says.

“And now they know he’s at Aretuza.” Jaskier glances nervously at the door.

“We have defenses up against non-Brotherhood mages,” Triss tells him. “You can’t just walk into Aretuza.”

“What about Brotherhood mages?”

“That’s what the guards are for.” Yennefer wakes a hand dismissively.

“Yenn,” Geralt groans and everyone goes still.

Jaskier isn’t sure what’s worse: that Geralt is calling out other people’s names in his sleep, or that Jaskier is actually petty enough to be upset by that when Geralt is dying in front of him. “I guess that explains him trying to strangle me.”

Yennefer makes a noncommittal noise that suggests she can think of other reasons why someone might want to strangle Jaskier. 

“Can you think of what information they could be trying to glean from him?” Triss asks, ignoring Yennefer.

Jaskier shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Could it have something to do with the teenage girl drenched in primal magic that you brought with you?” Yennefer asks.

Jaskier flinches. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. When she yelled at Tissaia, she nearly knocked Tissaia off her feet and banished two of our illusions. If you want to keep a low profile, someone is going to need to teach that child control.”

Less than twenty-four hours of Jaskier knowing Ciri’s secret, and now this. “No one can know about her.”

“Because she and her grandmother are the last Rhiannons? Understandable.”

“Yennefer.” Triss looks warningly at Gerallt. “We don’t know if someone is listening.”

Yennefer’s voice drops. “Don’t worry, skinny jeans. None of us are going to turn her over to Nilfgaard. None of us could go near the emperor’s court without being taken down by his mage, Fringilla. We just want to know if she’s going to bring the castle down with a scream if we give her the wrong type of juice box.”

“One, these jeans are slim fit,” Jaskier snaps. “Two, Ciri is almost fifteen. She’s a little bit beyond tantrums about juice boxes.”

“I don’t know, Yenn was an enormous pain in the ass at fifteen.” Triss grins wickedly.

Jaskier may propose marriage to Triss Merigold by the end of this.

Yennefer gives the other sorceress a sour look, then turns back to Jaskier. “Go wait with the others. You’re disturbing the magical energy in the room.”

“Is that code for annoying the shit out of you?”

“Yes. Annoyance is disturbing my magical energy. Get out.”

Jaskier looks at Triss to see if she’ll stand up for him, but her focus is entirely on Geralt. “Just let me know if anything changes.”

He shuffles out of the room and finds Calanthe and Ciri down the hallway, in a sitting area with Tissaia and Sabrina. While Ciri and Tissaia chat like old friends, Sabrina sits in a corner with a book and Calanthe leans against the wall, eyeing Tissaia balefully. Jaskier starts to sit, then abruptly stands up. There doesn’t seem to be anywhere comfortable to sit in Aretuza. The furniture all resembles something in a museum. It’s abundantly clear that this isn’t the kind of place where people watch movies and eat popcorn in their pajamas. Jaskier is pretty sure anyone who tries to eat on this furniture will get turned into something small and slimy.

“How is he?” Calanthe asks as he goes to stand against the wall next to her.

“About the same,” Jaskier says. “Yennefer and Triss think there’s someone trying to infiltrate his mind.”

Ciri frowns. “Why would someone do that?”

“He must have information they want.” Jaskier exchanges a dark look with Calanthe.

“Like, about me?” Ciri asks.

“We don’t know,” Jaskier says quickly. “Geralt has been alive for a long time. He probably has all kind of stuff in his head that someone might want.”

“We have magical defenses all over Aretuza,” Tissaia tells Ciri. “It would be difficult for an enemy sorcerer to breach our walls.”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” Calanthe says.

“Nothing is impossible when it comes to magic.” Tissaia smiles tightly. “That’s why we have the guards.”

“They’re illusions.” Calanthe eyes the guards in the doorway doubtfully. “How useful can they be?”

“They can do everything a normal guard can do,” Tissaia says. “Those swords on their back can do damage just as well as a sword wielded by a living, breathing person. Plus, we don’t have to feed or pay them.”

The guards’ expressions don’t change. It’s a bit eerie, so Jaskier looks away.

“Will Geralt be okay?” Ciri asks.

“Yennefer and Triss are doing everything they can.” It’s the first time Jaskier has heard Sabrina speak. She sounds bored; he gets the feeling that the blonde sorceress would like them all to go away so she can get back to her book.

Ciri looks skeptical. “Will that be enough?”

No one answers her.

***

“Yenn.” Triss’s voice is heavy with tiredness. “We’ve been working on him for almost twelve hours.”

Geralt has gone utterly still, which is somehow worse than the twitching and groaning from earlier. Yennefer runs a hand over his cool cheek, feeling the scratch of his stubble under her palm. The room is dark, except for the flickering candle in the windowsill. Geralt’s skin looks waxy and lifeless in the candlelight.

Triss sighs. “It might be time—”

“Don’t.” Yennefer has counted Triss as her closest friend for the past two centuries, but she’s tempted to slap the other sorceress right now.

“The curse is counteracting everything we try, Yenn. It’s sunk too deeply into him.”

“I know.”

“There’s no physical damage. It’s all—”

“I know how curses work,” Yennefer growls.

Triss isn’t cowed. She never is. It’s irritating. “I know the two of you have a lot of history together. I know it’s hard to let go. But sometimes, the kindest thing we can do is help someone die with dignity.”

Yennefer smooths her hand over Geralt’s brow and down the bridge of his nose. “No.”

“Yenn—”

“This isn’t me being a romantic idiot. We haven’t tried everything. The curse isn’t attacking him physically, right? It’s all mental.”

“That may be oversimplifying things. The human mind is—“

“A fascinating and complex thing. Yes, I know.” One online course in neurology and Triss in an expert. “We’re going about this all wrong. Go get Tissaia and Sabrina. I’m going to need all three of you as anchors.”

***

_He wanders in darkness. Occasionally, faces will appear in the gloom. A beautiful, violet-eyed woman. A woman with short brown hair and a wound in her throat. A young man with blue eyes and a brilliant smile. But they mean nothing to him. He doesn’t know where he’s walking, but he puts one foot in front of another and trudges towards his destination._

_The violet-eyed woman appears in front of him again. “Geralt.”_

_He goes to walk past her, but she blocks his path._

_“Geralt, do you know who I am?”_

_He doesn’t reply._

_She takes his face in her hands. “Your name is Geralt of Rivia. You’re a Witcher. You’re at Aretuza after being cursed by an assassin’s blade. Does any of this sound familiar?”_

_Flickers of memory come back to him. Jaskier. Ciri. The assassin. “Yennefer.”_

_Her face fills with relief. “Oh thank gods, I was starting to think it was too late. Listen to me, Geralt. Physically, you’re fine, but your mind is trapped by the curse. You need to come with me and leave this place.”_

_“Stregobor.” The name emerges from the depths of his memory._

_“What about him?”_

_“He’s looking for the source of the magic that killed the assassin. He couldn’t get it out of me, so he’s coming to Aretuza to interrogate Jaskier. Where is Jaskier?”_

_“Safely asleep in his room and under guard.”_

_“Stregobor will be able to get through Aretuza’s defenses. He was in the Brotherhood. Yenn, you need to get to Jaskier.”_

_“Come with me.”_

_“There’s no time.”_

_Her hands close around his. “Geralt, I’m not leaving here without you, understand? You walk out of the darkness with me. As soon as you’re safe, I will go and make sure he’s okay.”_

_“You don’t understand.”_

_“I think I understand better than you do, actually. Come on, Geralt. This is your last chance. You will die if you stay here. You don’t have much time.”_

_Geralt has never been able to win against Yennefer in an argument. He closes his eyes and lets her pull him away._

***

Geralt of Rivia’s eyes open. Four sorceresses are gathered around him, hands linked.

“Welcome back, Geralt,” Triss says warmly.

Geralt sits up, drawing noises of protest from the four women. “Where is Jaskier? Where’s Ciri?”

“Geralt, lay down.” Hands press against Geralt’s shoulders and a curtain of dark hair falls into his face. Yennefer. “I told you I would take care of this.”

“I need to get to Jaskier before Stregobor does.”

“Gods, Geralt, you are impossible sometimes. You can’t go into battle like this.”

“It won’t be a battle if I cut Stregobor down as soon as I see him.”

Yennefer groans. “Sabrina, some help?”

Geralt doesn’t have time to react before a cool hand presses to his forehead. Bone-deep exhaustion rushes over him and he finds his eyes closing of their own accord. “Damn it, Yennefer,” is all he has time to say before a deep, dreamless sleep claims him.

***

Jaskier’s bed has a dusty straw mattress and a blanket that smells like mothballs. It’s horribly uncomfortable, even worse than his air mattress, but that’s not the reason he lies wide awake, unable to sleep. It’s been over twenty-four hours since Geralt got hurt and there hasn’t been any change in his condition. Jaskier knows it’s only a matter of time before the Witcher succumbs to the curse. He saw the truth of it in Yennefer’s eyes the one time she emerged from Geralt’s room tonight.

Jaskier hasn’t slept in two days. His eyes burn and his heart hurts and he wants to curl up and pretend that the last few days never happened. He wants to go back to Friday night, when he ate pizza and ice cream with Geralt and Ciri and watched the way Geralt’s face softened whenever he spoke to Ciri.

He just wants Geralt back.

Finally, he can’t lie there and dwell anymore; he needs to find out how Geralt is doing. He slips out of the bedroom and past the guards, who don’t react to his presence. He guesses they were ordered to keep other people out of his room, but not to keep him in. It’s not until he’s walked down several torchlit halls (seriously, he knows the castle would be a bitch to wire for electricity, but battery-powered lights are a thing, as is fucking magic) that he realizes that he has no idea how to get to Geralt’s room. Aretuza is made up of endless corridors and staircases, with few discerning features.

He pauses to look out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Below, he can hear the rhythmic crash of the waves against the rocks. The night is clear and he can see the reflection of the moon on the water’s surface. Jaskier stands there for a long time, listening to the waves and watching the wavering reflection of the moon. It’s beautiful, in a strangely melancholy way. 

“This used to be a seat of power, you know.” The soft, pleasant voice sends a chill up Jaskier’s spine.

Stregobor strolls down the corridor towards Jaskier, surveying the hallway with the disappointed air of a kindly grandfather who just discovered his grandchildren scribbling on the walls. “Kingdoms rose and fell based on the decisions made within these walls. And now, look at it. Four girls who isolate themselves from the world and their fellow sorcerers. Such a waste.”

Jaskier thinks about Geralt and the sorceresses all the way on the other side of the castle. He wonders if anyone will hear him if he yells for help. He wonders if he’ll have a chance to yell for help.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, proud of how steady his voice is.

“Just feeling nostalgic for old times,” Stregobor says. “I felt like stopping by. How is the Witcher, by the way?”

“I’m not the one you should ask. Triss and Yennefer are taking care of him.”

“But I’m asking you.” Stregobor comes to stand in front of Jaskier, too close for comfort.

“They’re doing everything they can,” Jaskier says.

“I’m sure they are.” Stregobor’s expression conveys that he doesn’t think much of what the sorceresses can do. “Something interesting happened when I went to retrieve the body of the assassin.”

“Was that something interesting the fact that there was a dead assassin in my apartment?”

Stregobor smiles humorlessly. “The room was filled with traces of an odd sort of magic, one that I haven’t seen in hundreds of years. It wasn’t sorcery and it wasn’t Witcher magic. It was something entirely unique. I was hoping you could tell me what happened.”

“The assassin tried to kill me and Geralt killed him. Not much to tell.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true. Any battle that leaves two Witchers dead must have been quite a sight to behold.”

“Geralt’s not dead,” Jaskier growls.

Stregobor ignores him. “I spent a lot of time inside of the Butcher’s head, trying to figure out what happened, but it has a strong mind. How strong is your mind, Jaskier?”

Jaskier forces himself not to recoil. “Call Geralt ‘it’ again and you’ll find out how strong my foot up your ass is.”

The sorcerer laughs. “I see why the Butcher keeps you around. At first, I wondered what a creature like that would want with a musician. It’s not like it—my apologies, he—can appreciate music.”

“Guess it’s my sparkling fucking personality then. Honestly, Geralt told me to run as soon as the fighting started, so I ran. If there was any kind of strange magic being used, I wouldn’t know about it.”

“I’m going to be entirely blunt with you,” the sorcerer says. “I haven’t felt that type of magic since I visited the royal court of Old Cintra. It was a very distinctive power carried by the women of the Rhiannon family, the ability to wreak havoc with a scream. Primitive, but effective. The emperor has shown great interest in the rumors that one of the princesses survived the sacking of Cintra and that she might have descendants alive today. Anyone who brought him those descendants would be richly rewarded.”

Jaskier’s throat feels like it’s full of ashes. Gods, he hopes Ciri is safely asleep on the other side of the castle.

“Could it be you, Jaskier, or was there someone else it that room?” Stregobor asks. “It was a power only held by the Rhiannon daughters, but that could have changed over the generations.”

“I don’t think I’m a lost princess, but I can check my birth certificate when I get home. My parents’ names are Alfred and Julia Pankratz and I’m pretty sure the closest they’ve ever gotten to royalty is when my mom won a couple of beauty pageants when she was in high school.”

“Perhaps I could make you scream and see what happens.” Stregobor’s hand lashes out and fists in Jaskier’s hair.

“All that will happen is you’ll get a headache,” Jaskier says, heart hammering. “ I have great lung capacity from all the singing.”

“Then I’ll just see what’s inside that head of yours.”

“Not much. Mostly just song lyrics.”

“We’ll see. Don’t worry, your mind will be mostly intact by the time I’m done.” Stregobor’s grip tightens. “I’ll admit, when the assassin called me to tell me he’d had a contract to kill Geralt of Rivia, but it had fallen through and asked me if I’d like to pick up the contract, I did it on a lark. I decided that no matter what happened, there would be at least one Witcher corpse for me to study.”

“You hired the assassin?” Jaskier croaks.

“Well, I hired him the second time. It seems the Butcher has made at least one other enemy. But how fortunate that I did, because I’ve now discovered something far more interesting than the life of one mutant. If there was a Rhiannon descendant in that room and her scream is what killed the assassin, then I need to find her. And if that means leaving one musician braindead, then so be it.”

So much for “mostly intact.” Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will his mind into blankness.

Footsteps echo from somewhere nearby and Stregobor releases Jaskier and hurriedly takes a step back. Jaskier sidles away from the sorcerer, keeping his back pressed to the wall. Yennefer appears around the corner, flanked by two of the guards. When she sees Stregobor, her eyes narrow.

“What the hell are you doing here, Stregobor?” Her voice drips with disdain.

“Ah, Yennefer. You look well. I see Tissaia is still keeping her harem of imaginary men.”

“Says the man who lives in a garden of naked women. We find that there’s a certain type of visitor who is more intimidated by imaginary soldiers than real sorceresses.” One of the soldiers unsheathes his sword and jabs it in Stregobor’s direction. The sorcerer flinches, even though the soldier is several paces away. “See, like that.”

Stregobor recovers himself. “We were just having a conversation, Yennefer. Get back to whatever it was you were doing.”

“I’m pretty sure he was about to turn me into a vegetable and throw me out a window, actually,” Jaskier says.

Yennefer doesn’t look at him. “This man is a guest of Aretuza. He is under our protection. You’re not welcome here.”

“Aretuza is a stronghold of the Brotherhood. You have no right—”

“The Brotherhood no longer exists. You have no power here anymore, Stregobor. Not that your power was ever anything overly impressive.”

Stregobor sneers. “Did you ever succeed in recovering your womb, Yennefer?”

Anger ripples across the sorceress’s expression. “Oh, you idiot, you think the best way to insult a woman is by insulting her genitalia and what she does with it, don’t you? Fuck off.”

“Such coarse language.”

“My apologies. Kindly fuck off.”

“He’s the one who hired the assassin,” Jaskier says quickly. If he’s about to be collateral damage in a magical battle, Yennefer needs to know what he knows.

She doesn’t look surprised. “If you’re here to finish the job, you’ll be disappointed. He’s going to heal and if you try to get near him, I’ll turn you into an eel and step on you. You’re not even worthy of being a conduit.”

“I’m after a bigger prize now, Yennefer. Have you heard anything about the lost Rhiannon princess?”

Yennefer snorts. “Always after the next power grab, Stregobor. You’ll be better served playing tricks at children’s birthday parties than chasing fairy tales. Now get out. I won’t ask again.”

Stregobor’s face contorts, then smooths over into a smile. To Jaskier, he says, “This isn’t the end of this conversation.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier says, but it doesn’t have the gravitas that it had when Yennefer said it. He really needs to work on sounding like a badass.

The sorcerer brushes past Yennefer without looking at her on his way out. Yennefer watches him go, then says to the soldiers, “Follow him. Make sure he leaves the castle and don’t let him anywhere near the residential wing.”

The soldiers leave without a word. Jaskier wonders if they can speak.

“Um, thanks,” he says sheepishly. Up until now, he really hasn’t like Yennefer much.

She whirls on him. “What kind of idiot are you, wandering around a castle inhabited by sorceresses by yourself at night? There are doors that if you walked through them, you would die instantly. There are doors that have portals to the other side of the Continent. That door over there? Would take you to Novigrad. There are worse things in this castle than Stregobor and you’re damn lucky you didn’t run into any of them.”

“I got turned around.”

“Turned around? You should be in bed!”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Jaskier is tired of being spoken to like a child. “How is Geralt?”

Her expression softens. “He’s going to live.”

Jaskier has to close his eyes for a moment as relief washes over him.

“It was a vicious curse,” Yennefer says. “It weakened him, body and soul. He won’t be himself for quite some time. But he’s awake, or he was. I put him back to sleep, or he was going to come rushing after you.”

Jaskier tries to hide the pleased expression on his face. “Can I see him?”

“Fine, so long as you don’t chatter at him too much. The poor thing has been through enough.”

It’s official. Jaskier really doesn’t like Yennefer of Vengerberg.

***

Jaskier ends up sleeping in a chair in Geralt’s room. It’s more comfortable than the straw mattress. Yennefer grumbles, but gives up on arguing with him. Jaskier knows it’s ridiculous, but he doesn’t want Geralt to be alone when he wakes up. Like a Witcher is going to be afraid of the dark or something. 

He’s woken up by a familiar rumbling voice. “Jaskier, didn’t they give you a fucking bed?”

Jaskier sits up so fast that he nearly falls out of the chair and finds Geralt watching him. The Witcher is awake, his eyes lucid. He still doesn’t look entirely like himself; he’s too pale and there are dark shadows under his eyes. But he’s alive and still unfairly beautiful.

Jaskier launches himself at Geralt and throws his arms around the Witcher. Geralt tenses, then his shoulders relax. He even pats Jaskier on the back, which Jaskier imagines is Geralt’s version of a bear hug.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Jaskier says into Geralt’s shoulder.

“I nearly strangled you.”

“You weren’t the first Witcher this week to try. I’ve stopped taking it personally.”

“Stregobor was in my mind. I wasn’t—”

“Trust me, I know.” Jaskier realizes that he’s been hugging Geralt for way too long and abruptly lets go.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks. “Stregobor was on his way here.”

“He showed up. There was some talk of probing my mind and leaving me braindead, but Yennefer interrupted.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. Geralt, you just spent a day in a magical coma, shouldn’t you be more worried about you? How do you feel? Do I need to get Yennefer or Triss?” Jaskier stands up. Geralt is shirtless and being too close to him is making it difficult to think.

“Where are my swords?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, trying to channel Calanthe. “No, you are not charging after Stregobor. Yennefer says you’re going to be weak for a while. You’re going to need to take it easy.”

“He won’t let this go. If he finds out about Ciri, he will come for her.”

“I know, but that’s a problem for another day. Right now, we’re all here and we’re all safe and he has no idea who Ciri is. So no one is going charging off into battle while weakened.”

Geralt cocks an eyebrow at him and Jaskier feels himself blushing.

“Geralt, you’re okay!” There’s a squeal and a blur of blond hair as Ciri leaps into the Witcher’s arms. Geralt lets out a surprised laugh and hugs her. Jaskier can’t stop a goofy smile from spreading across his face.

“We drove all the way here from Posada,” Ciri tells Geralt cheerfully. “In Roach!”

Geralt’s face falls and Jaskier quickly adds, “Roach is fine. Mostly. Someone may or may not have keyed her at a rest stop.”

“Probably those pedestrians Gran nearly ran over,” Ciri says.

“Probably. But we’re all alive and in one piece. That’s what matters!” Jaskier perches on the edge of the bed.

Someone clears their throat behind him and Jaskier looks around to see Calanthe in the doorway, standing stiffly as she watches the three of them. She regards Geralt warily. “I hear I owe you my granddaughter’s life. I’m Calanthe.”

Geralt nods. “I think I owe your granddaughter my life. I’m Geralt.”

Ciri’s face turns brilliantly pink.

“And you’ve managed to keep Jaskier alive for all these months,” Calanthe says. “That’s impressive in of itself.”

“I resent that,” Jaskier says. “I kept myself alive for twenty-five years before Geralt.”

“Barely,” Calanthe mutters. “The first wyvern that came along, you nearly became food.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier thinks he sees Geralt flinch, but when he turns to look at the Witcher, Geralt’s face is as impassive as ever.

“This sorcerer who attacked Jaskier last night, Stregobor,” Calanthe says. “Is he dangerous?”

“Yes,” Geralt says. “He will do whatever it takes to get power. If he finds out about Ciri, she will be in danger. We’ll all be.”

Calanthe’s lips presses into a thin line. “Then I suppose we need to figure out a way to stop him from getting anywhere near her.”

***

“I can’t stay in this bed any longer, Yennefer.”

Yennefer doesn’t look up at him; she’s examining the faint line on his wrist left by the assassin’s blade. “You’ve only been awake for a few hours.”

“It would have been longer if you hadn’t put me back to sleep last night.”

“There was a time you wouldn’t have complained about me keeping you in bed all day.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Yes, I live to play nursemaid to ungrateful Witchers.”

He’s glad she’s looking away so she won’t see his smile. “Thank you, Yennefer.”

She rolls her eyes. “Every time you show up on my doorstep, it’s because something horrible has happened and you’re on the verge of death. You could just stop by for a cup of tea once in a while.”

“Last time we saw each other, you made it clear you didn’t want to see me anymore.”

“That was over a hundred years ago, Geralt. It’s all bygones.”

“Hm.” Geralt is skeptical; Yennefer isn’t one for bygones.

“You haven’t changed much over the centuries, Geralt, but the company you keep has.” At Geralt’s questioning look, she continues. “A scrawny musician and two lost princesses?”

“He’s not that scrawny. And I dare you to call Calanthe a princess to her face.”

“At least the song is catchy.” Yennefer starts to hum “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.”

Geralt grimaces. “Please don’t.”

“Triss loves his blog,” she says. “I don’t like him, but I’m glad you dropped the lone wolf act.”

“Act?”

“Yes, act. You spent so much time being brooding and tragic when we were younger that sometimes, it felt like being in love with the hero of a bad novel.”

“Hm.” Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that. He often doesn’t around Yennefer.

“If only I’d known that all it took to drag you out of your shell was a chronically annoying musician.”

“There is no shell,” Geralt grumbles.

Yennefer snorts. “There absolutely is a shell, Geralt. Why do you think we didn’t work out?”

“Do you really want to talk about this right now, Yenn?”

“I probably won’t see you for another century, so we might as well.” She fixes him with an assessing look. “You called out for Renfri in your sleep.”

Geralt stiffens. “Did I?”

“And for me.”

“Yennefer…”

“But do you know who you called out for the most?”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

“Stregobor got into your mind and saw your worst fears, and the visions he decided to torment you with were of the irritating musician.”

Geralt remembers Jaskier’s agonized, dying face. “Stregobor knows Jaskier and I work together.”

“Ah, yes, you work together.” Yennefer shakes her head. “For someone who has been alive for as long as you have, you can be awfully dense sometimes.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Colleagues don’t pull themselves out of magical comas because they know that the other one is in danger. Colleagues don’t spend the night sitting at each other’s sickbeds. Colleagues aren’t tortured by visions of the other one being harmed.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Yennefer sighs. “If you saw the way you two look at each other, you wouldn’t have to ask that question.”

Geralt stares at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

“It’s not like that.” He shakes his head. “Jaskier is… he’s…”

“No accounting for taste, Geralt.” Yennefer releases his wrist and steps back. “ This one won’t be around for another couple of centuries. If you’re going to act, do it soon.”

She’s gone before Geralt can think of a reply. He stares after her for a long moment. 

“Fuck.”

***

Jaskier never thought he would be so relieved to see the back of a magical castle, but when Yennefer gives Geralt a clean bill of health and tells them they can leave, he almost weeps with relief. Two days at Aretuza has left him bored and restless. Two days in Yennefer’s company has reminded him how hopelessly out of his league Geralt is.

“Look at the state of her tires.” Geralt walks around Roach, shaking his head mournfully.

“One day of driving isn’t going to strip a car’s tires, Geralt.” Jaskier throws his backpack in the backseat. “Seriously, Roach is fine.”

Geralt grumbles, but doesn’t reply. He’s been even quieter than usual since yesterday. Jaskier doesn’t know if the Witcher is just recovering or if he’s as sick of Aretuza as the rest of them. Either way, Jaskier is happy to fill the silence.

“I missed two shifts at the grocery store.” Jaskier scrolls through the phone he left in Roach. “My boss called me like a dozen times. I’m totally fired, right? Oh, there’s the text. Yes, I’m fired. Shit.”

Geralt grunts.

“This is what I missed about you, Geralt. Our witty banter.”

“Hm.”

“There it is. I missed those hms.”

“Do you know what I miss about being in a coma?”

“What’s that?”

“The silence.”

“Wait, was that an attempt at humor?” Jaskier is too delighted to be offended. “Are we sure you’re not concussed?”

“Just get in the car, Jaskier.”

Triss and Yennefer walk up to them, Ciri in between them. Calanthe and Tissaia hang back, having what looks like an unpleasant conversation. Sabrina didn’t come to see them off.

“I’m looking forward to the song you write about this, Jaskier,” Triss says. Yennefer rolls her eyes.

Jaskier doesn’t know if there’s a song to properly convey the terror of the last few days, but he smiles. “It’s always nice to meet a fan.”

“Yennefer likes them too, even if she won’t admit it.” Triss gives the other sorceress a playful shove.

“The blog posts are informative,” Yennefer says. “The songs… well, you put your heart into them, skinny jeans. That’s what matters.”

“Don’t listen to her.” Triss gives Jaskier a hug and whispers in his ear, “I overheard her singing ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ in the bath once. She’s a liar.”

Jaskier snorts. “Thanks, Triss.”

“Don’t be a stranger. You are all welcome anytime.” Triss lets go of Jaskier and goes to give Ciri a hug.

Jaskier looks over in time to see Yennefer embracing Geralt. The sorceress murmurs something in Geralt’s ear, too low for Jaskier to hear. Her eyes meet Jaskier’s over Geralt’s shoulder and Jaskier turns away, not quickly enough to miss the gentle kiss Geralt presses to the top of Yennefer’s head. It’s absurd to be jealous right now. Yennefer is a badass and she saved Geralt’s life. Jaskier would probably be in love with her too, if she didn’t blatantly hate him. Who wouldn’t be?

“What’s your grandmother arguing with Tissaia about?” he asks Ciri, because he needs something to focus on besides all the murmuring going on behind him.

“Oh, Tissaia wants me to stay here,” Ciri says. “She thinks they could help me harness my magic. Gran’s not happy.”

“Do you want to stay? Learn how to be a sorceress? There’s no wi-fi, but you’d never have to go to math class again.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Ciri smiles up at him, a glint in her eye. “I don’t want to be a sorceress. I think I’d rather be a Witcher.”

***

Sixteen hours later, it’s well after midnight when Calanthe, Ciri, and Jaskier trudge up the stairs of their apartment building.

“I’m going to sleep for the next two days,” Ciri announces.

“You slept in the car. You’re going to school in the morning.” Calanthe is still prickly from her argument with Tissaia and Ciri’s announcement that she wants to be a Witcher.

“But Gran—”

“Don’t ‘Gran’ me. You only have five hours until you need to be up for school. Go get yourself ready for bed.”

“Calanthe, can I talk to you?” Jaskier asks as Ciri groans and slips inside.

Calanthe turns to him. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“This will be quick.”

Calanthe studies his face, brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier hesitates, not wanting to verbalize the nagging suspicion that’s been forming in the back of his mind for the last couple of days. It’s almost too horrible to say out loud. “I’ve been thinking about the first person who hired the assassin.”

Her knuckles whiten on the doorknob. “They canceled the contract, right? They must have changed their mind.”

“It doesn’t make sense. They went through all the trouble of hiring a Witcher assassin, but then they just let it drop? And they didn’t want collateral damage. What kind of person hires an assassin, but doesn’t want anyone else getting hurt?”

“The assassin is dead. We have more important things to worry about, like Stregobor.”

“Calanthe, come on.”

She closes her eyes.

“Why?” is all Jaskier can bring himself to ask.

“For Ciri.”

“How the hell would killing Geralt benefit Ciri?”

“Geralt was at the fall of Old Cintra. He knew the royal family. I knew that if he spent enough time around Ciri, he would eventually recognize her. I didn’t know what he would do, if he would try and use her powers for himself or sell her to Nilfgaard or just kill her. I couldn’t risk that. I tried to talk you out of spending time with him—”

“So, this is my fault?”

“No, of course not. It was a mistake. I was scared and desperate and I did something terrible. But as soon as I saw those bruises on your neck and realized what he’d done, I fired him. How was I supposed to know that he would find someone else to pay him to kill Geralt? He had my money. I thought that would be enough.”

“Geralt almost died! Ciri and I almost died!”

“I know. Gods, Jaskier, I know.” Calanthe looks up at him, her gray eyes glinting with tears. “I lost Pavetta and Duny. I couldn’t lose Ciri. I couldn’t lose you. When I told you that death follows Witchers, I meant it. I was so scared that he would recognize Ciri and put her in danger, or that you would get caught in the crossfire of one of his battles.”

“I did.” Jaskier pulls down his jacket so she can see the fading bruises on his neck. “You know who saved me? The man you almost had killed.”

“Jaskier, I’m sorry.” She’s really crying now. He’s never seen Calanthe cry before.

“Sorry doesn’t fix this.”

Calanthe wipes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’ve met Witchers before. They’ve all been cold, calculating, only worried about the coin. That’s what I thought Geralt would be like. And then I saw him with you and Ciri. I knew you cared about him, but I had no idea he cared about you too.”

Jaskier can’t look at her anymore. He turns away.

“Are you going to tell Ciri?” Calanthe’s voices shakes.

“No, I’m not going to do that to her.” Jaskier shakes his head. “How I feel about Ciri is never going to change. I love her like a sister and I will always be a part of her life. But you? You and I are not okay. We’re never going to be okay again.”

“I understand.”

“I still don’t.” Before she can reply, Jaskier steps into his apartment and slams the door in her face.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, everybody!


	8. Of Graveirs and Garroters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier go on their first job since Geralt’s near-miss with death. What should be a routine hunt of a graveir is complicated by a snowstorm and the lingering effects of their encounter with the assassin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: After an intense few chapters, let’s make this a short, fluffy little chapter!
> 
> Also me: But trauma! Hotel room sharing! ANGST!
> 
> Me: *Geralt voice* Well, fuck.

For the third time that afternoon, Ciri swings a sword at Geralt’s face. It’s a wooden practice sword and Geralt easily deflects it, but Geralt still gives her an approving grunt. Jaskier watches them circle each other from where he sits on Geralt’s back porch, lute in hand. The dusting of snow on the ground has been thoroughly trampled by Ciri and Geralt as they thrust, parry, and dodge.

Ciri lets out a short scream and Geralt stumbles back at the force of it. Taking advantage of his distraction, Ciri lunges forward and jabs Geralt in the gut with the practice sword. She whoops in triumph and drops the sword.

“I finally got you! Jaskier, did you see that? I got him!”

“You can’t drop your weapon and celebrate in the middle of a battle,” Geralt says dryly as Ciri does a complicated wiggle that might be a victory dance.

“Good job, Cir,” Jaskier calls. “And it only took a month of training. You’ll be a Witcher in no time.”

Geralt gives him an exasperated look. “As I keep telling both of you, they don’t make Witchers anymore. And even if they did, Ciri would be too old.”

“Rude,” Ciri says.

Despite his frozen fingers, Jaskier strums a few chords on his lute.

“Still working on that song?” Ciri comes over to take a swig from his thermos of coffee.

“Get your own, you little vulture,” he says. “What do you think sounds better, ‘lovely garroter’ or ‘gorgeous garroter?’”

“Why are you singing about people getting garroted?”

“It’s a song about heartbreak. The garroting is entirely metaphorical.”

“It won’t be, if you start singing,” Geralt says.

“Hilarious,” Jaskier deadpans.

Geralt looks down at him. The pale winter sunlight shines in his hair and the way he looks in his zip-up black sweater is doing things to Jaskier. His sleeves are rolled up and the sight of his forearms is distracting. Jaskier swallows and decides to take a long, steadying moment to tune his lute.

“Do you want to go next?” Geralt’s voice is its normal low rumble, but there’s something soft about it. “You need to learn how to fight as much as Ciri does.”

“No, thank you. I have you two badasses to protect me when I get in trouble, remember?”

When he looks up, he’s surprised to see Geralt smiling at him. “I seem to remember you pointing a gun at a Witcher not that long ago.”

“A total fluke.” Jaskier’s mouth is dry. “Won’t ever happen again.”

“Hm.” Geralt turns to Ciri and says, “Go run around the block twice.”

Her jaw drops open. “What?”

“You need to be able to perform in battle, even when physically exhausted. Go run around the block and then we’ll spar again.”

“But I hate running!”

“I have bad news for you then. A lot of fighting is running.”

“Ugh, fine.” Ciri takes off at a jog.

“You’re just trying to get revenge on her for the scream, aren’t you?” Jaskier asks as Geralt sits down next to him.

“Of course not,” Geralt says with a grunt. “I just need a break.”

“Are you getting worn out?” Jaskier studies him, concerned. “How are you feeling? Do you want me to get you anything? Some water?”

“I’m fine, Jaskier. Stop looking at me like I’m an invalid.”

“Yennefer and Triss said it would take a while for you to be entirely back to normal.”

“It’s been a month.”

“Yeah, but if you’re still feeling weak—”

“I’m not feeling weak,” Geralt says. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

There’s a nervous flutter in Jaskier’s gut. “Um, nothing. Probably more job applications. Working on this song. Why?”

“There was a graveir attack in Rinde last night. Two dead. They think the graveir may also be behind the disappearance of at least five people in the last few months.”

Of course it’s a job. Jaskier shakes his head at his own stupidity. “Graveirs. Those are like ghouls, right?”

“Like ghouls, but bigger and meaner. And with a fondness for bone marrow.”

“Oh, excellent. You take me to the nicest places, Geralt.” Jaskier flashes his brightest smile, hoping to cover up any momentary disappointment. “You sure you’ll be up to it? We haven’t been on a job since Aretuza.”

Geralt shoots him an exasperated look. “It’s just a graveir, Jaskier. Of course I’m up for it.”

***

“So, Geralt was totally flirting with you earlier, right?” Ciri asks later, when they’re in Jaskier’s car on their way home.

“I wouldn’t call that flirting.” Though on anyone besides Geralt, Jaskier would call it flirting. The smile, the standing too close, the gentle teasing. It was...a lot. 

“I would,” Ciri says. “When he asked if you wanted to spar, I don’t think he was actually talking about sparring.”

“One, I’m pretty sure he’s straight. Two, he’s a bit out of my league, Ciri. Did you see Yennefer?”

“Yenn says that the two of them dated for off and on for a hundred and fifty years or so, but they weren’t good for each other.”

“Since when do you talk to Yennefer?” Jaskier asks.

“We text. We have a group chat with Triss and Tissaia. Sabrina’s on there too, but she’s pretty quiet.”

Of course Ciri would have a group chat with four ageless, all-powerful sorceresses. “What do you guys even talk about?”

“The usual. Boys, magic, smiting our enemies, memes.”

“Oh good, the usual stuff.”

“Yenn doesn’t think you two will figure things out until you’re at least eighty.”

“I’m so glad Yennefer has such a high opinion of me,” Jaskier says dryly. “But there’s nothing to figure out. Geralt is just a friend.”

Ciri snorts skeptically.

They park in front of their apartment building and Jaskier braces himself for the question he knows is coming. “Do you want to come over for dinner?” Ciri asks. “Gran is making lasagna.”

“Not tonight. I’m on a roll with this song. Maybe next time.”

“Why aren’t you and Gran speaking to each other?”

“What?” Jaskier blinks. “We’re speaking to each other. We speak!”

“Only about boring stuff like picking me up from school. You haven’t been over for dinner in like a month. And you guys barely said a word to each other at my birthday last weekend.”

Jaskier keeps his face turned away from her as they walk into the building. “I was a little busy stopping your friend Martin from following Geralt around all night, asking him a million questions about dragons and annoying the shit out of him.”

Ciri rolls her eyes. “Martin is harmless.”

“Geralt isn’t.”

She hurries to catch up with him. “Jaskier, I’m not stupid. Something must have happened at Aretuza. What did Gran do?”

Jaskier sighs. “Your grandmother and I just had a...disagreement about Geralt.”

“But she’s okay with him now! She said yes to him training me how to fight. She even invited him to my birthday!”

“Yeah, I know. Look, sometimes when you love someone and they make you angry, it’s just best to have some time apart from each other. But we’ll be fine.”

“As long as you don’t stop coming around.” Ciri’s voice is small.

“Of course not.” Jaskier pulls her into a one-armed hug. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Good,” Ciri says, leaning her head against his shoulder.

Jaskier plans to say goodbye to her and slip into his apartment, but he’s closing his door behind him when he hears Calanthe call, “Jaskier, can I talk to you for a minute?”

He grimaces. He could pretend that he didn’t hear and close the door, but that would be childish, and Jaskier is trying to keep things civil. Instead, he steps out into the hallway and adopts his most neutrally pleasant expression, the same one he used to use at the grocery store when customers started ranting at him about the price of bananas.

Calanthe is still dressed for work. Her blazer is rumpled and her shirt partially untucked. The eyeliner on her left eye is smudged and she looks tired. Jaskier isn’t used to Calanthe showing her age; she’s always looked closer to her mid-forties than her early sixties. Something about seeing her looking so worn down causes Jaskier’s insides to twist with guilt.

“What can I do for you?” It’s a struggle to keep his bland expression.

Calanthe smiles at him with unusual uncertainty. “I just wanted to see how Ciri’s training is going.”

“She’s doing great. She got a hit on Geralt today. He seems really pleased with her progress.”

“She’s so happy whenever she comes back from training,” Calanthe says. “She’s having a great time.”

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t have him murdered in cold blood?” Jaskier wants to ask, but that would be far from civil. Instead, he says, “She is.”

“How is the job hunting going?”

This is new territory. They’ve kept all conversation Ciri-centric for the last month. “It’s going,” Jaskier says cautiously.

“The sandwich shop across from my office is hiring. I could put in a good word for you. I’m their best customer.”

“No, thanks. I’ll find something.”

“Are you sure? It would be no trouble.”

“No thank you, Calanthe.” He wishes that he could forgive Calanthe for Ciri’s sake. He wishes he could look at her and see anything but the twisted satisfaction on the assassin’s face as he choked Jaskier or Stregobor’s indifferent expression as he discussed leaving Jaskier braindead. When he wakes up nightmares of being pinned down by the assassin, breathlessly begging for his life, all he can do is curse his stubborn idiot of a next door neighbor. Calanthe did that. Maybe not directly, but everything that’s happening now--Jaskier’s nightmares, Geralt’s weakness, Stregobor’s obsession with finding the lost Rhiannon princesses--is her fault.

Calanthe takes a deep breath. “What can I do to make this right? We can’t keep going like this, Jaskier. It’s not fair to Ciri.”

“Don’t do that," Jaskier snaps. "Don’t invoke Ciri after what you did. Yeah, I know, you did it for her. But this isn’t getting overzealous at a parent-teacher conference. You almost… you tried…”

“I know.” She holds up her hands placatingly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t come over here to fight.”

“Unless you have a time machine so you can go back in time and un-hire the assassin, there’s nothing you can do. Nothing is going to fix this.”

Calanthe doesn’t reply, just looks at him sadly for a moment before going into her apartment and closing the door behind her.

***

It’s snowing when they get to Rinde late the next afternoon. Jaskier has always liked snow (his biggest complaint about Posada is that they never get proper snowstorms) but this is the kind of wet, heavy snow that does nothing but make the roads slushy and put everyone in a foul mood.

Geralt slaps the photos of the graveir’s victims down on the table of the diner where they’re grabbing an early dinner. Jaskier gags on his bite of cheeseburger.

“Gods, Geralt, why? Couldn’t that have waited until I was done eating?”

“When you’re done eating, we’ll need to leave.” Geralt studies the photos dispassionately. “The victims were on a ghost tour at the local cemetery.”

“Sounds like a natural place to find a graveir.”

Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t understand ghost tours. Humans wander around graveyards and battlefields and they’re surprised when someone gets dragged off by a ghoul or has their soul sucked out by a wraith.”

“Most people don’t expect to find an actual monster on a ghost tour. Now, can you put those away? You’re about to make me a vegetarian.”

Geralt nods to the most gruesome of the photos. “At least you didn’t order ribs.”

Jaskier pushes his plate away. “Your attempts at humor are truly upsetting, you know that?”

Geralt smiles. An actual smile, with teeth and everything. Jaskier would enjoy it more if there wasn’t so much viscera on display in front of him. Despite himself, he finds himself smiling back.

Abruptly, Geralt breaks eye contact. “This is going to be a large graveir. It nearly tore the man in half.”

“I can see that. Thank you for pointing that out.”

“You’ll be staying in the car.”

“I’m shocked.”

“Did you bring your knives?”

“Sure did.” Jaskier pats his jacket, feeling the weight of the blades hidden there. Geralt gave him three knives not long after they got back from Aretuza--one steel, one iron, and one silver.

“If the graveir gets within stabbing range, you’re as good as dead,” Geralt says. “But you might buy yourself a few more seconds.”

“Have you ever thought about a second career as a motivational speaker?”

“No.”

Jaskier wants to make a witty joke, but then the memory of a knife at his throat comes back to him and it’s like his lungs are filling with ice water. He was in stabbing range that night and even if he had a knife, he doesn’t think it would have made a bit of difference. If Geralt notices that his hands are shaking when he waves down the waitress for the check, the Witcher is tactful enough not to mention it.

***

Hours later, they’re sitting in Roach in the middle of a graveyard and it’s snowing so hard that Jaskier can’t make out the names on the gravestone only a couple of feet in front of them. It’s like the car has been wrapped in a giant white blanket.

Finally, Geralt curses under his breath. “The graveir won’t be out hunting in this. There won’t be any prey.”

“Could we go hunting for it?”

“We’d have to start digging up graves and the mayor objected to that.”

“Can’t imagine why. So what do we do?” Jaskier asks.

“Try again tomorrow. We’ll have to find somewhere to spend the night.”

Jaskier’s mind goes blank for a second. “Up here?”

“Unless you want to drive all the way back to Posada and back here tomorrow. You brought a change of clothes?”

“Uh, yeah.” Jaskier always brings overnight supplies just in case but he’s never had to actually use them before now. “Yeah, sure, let’s go.”

The manager of the first motel they stop at takes one look at Geralt and says they’re completely booked. There are only three cars in the parking lot and Jaskier is about to argue, but Geralt just grunts and leaves. The clerk at the second motel wants to charge them an exorbitant amount for two rooms, such a ridiculous amount that he has to think they’ll say no and leave.

Instead, Geralt says, “Fine, we’ll take one room.”

“We’ll what now?” Jaskier asks.

The Witcher gives him a sidelong glance. “Unless you’d rather sleep in Roach.”

“One room is fine,” Jaskier says quickly.

The clerk turns purple and hems and haws a bit, but his gaze flickers to the swords strapped to Geralt’s back and he clearly thinks twice about pissing off a Witcher. It stings a bit to hand over as much money for one room than they would normally pay for two, but Jaskier doesn’t object.

“Does that happen a lot?” he asks once he and Geralt are in the motel room. It’s a standard seedy motel room: two beds with brownish bedspreads that could have been orange or maroon once, ugly wallpaper, and a suspicious stain on the carpet only partially hidden by a lamp.

“Yes.”

“You could have kicked that little shit’s ass.”

“More trouble than it’s worth.” Geralt shrugs. “If I let it bother me every time I got turned away from an inn, I’d never sleep again.”

Something about his quiet resignation makes Jaskier want to go downstairs and wring some necks, but instead he says, “People can be assholes.”

“They can be,” Geralt agrees quietly. “That, at least, hasn’t changed in the last five hundred years.”

***

Jaskier has no trouble falling asleep that night, not even with the knowledge that the subject of most of his late night fantasies is in a bed only a few feet away. In the darkness, the Witcher is eerily quiet, so quiet that it’s easy to forget that he’s there. Jaskier drops off to sleep quickly, with one final prayer to the universe that he doesn’t have a sex dream. He couldn’t deal with that mortification.

He does not have a sex dream.

Instead, as it does so many nights, the assassin’s snarling face appears above Jaskier’s. Jaskier tries to beg for his life, but his vocal cords are frozen. He can only lie there, unable to move, as the assassin begins to strangle him. Sometimes, the face above him turns into Stregobor’s. Sometimes, it turns into Calanthe’s. Sometimes, it even turns into Geralt’s. Jaskier gasps and wheezes and tries to plead with his eyes for mercy that he knows will never come.

“Jaskier!”

Hands grab Jaskier and he lets out a choked little scream and lashes out. His fist connects with something solid.

Geralt grunts. “Jaskier!”

Jaskier snaps fully awake and finds himself staring into the Witcher’s bewildered face. Geralt is holding onto Jaskier’s wrists, pinning them against Jaskier’s chest, and Jaskier realizes with mortification that he must have hit Geralt.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Shit, I was having a nightmare. Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Geralt hasn’t let go of Jaskier’s wrists. His grip is gentle. Now that Jaskier has been manhandled by a Witcher who wished him harm, he can appreciate how much Geralt holds back whenever he shoves Jaskier out of the way of an incoming monster or steers him out of a room. 

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks.

“Yeah, sorry.” Now that some of the panicked sleep fog is clearing, embarrassment floods in. “Go back to sleep.”

Geralt lets go of Jaskier’s wrists and goes to sit on the edge of his own bed. “You’ve been having nightmares.” It isn’t a question.

There’s no use denying it, not when there are still tears on his cheeks and he knows Geralt can see in the dark. “Yeah, I have.”

“Since the assassin?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you...like to talk about it?” He sounds so uncomfortable, like someone who read an article about how to be more empathetic and is just trying to put it into practice. Knowing Geralt, that’s exactly what’s happening.

“There’s not much to talk about,” Jaskier says. “Someone pointed a gun at me and tried to strangle me and then a couple of days later, he showed up at my apartment, threatened to kill Ciri, and then held a knife to my throat. Then you got hurt saving my life. Then a sorcerer threatened to tear apart my mind to get to Ciri.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even grunt a response.

Jaskier presses his palms against his forehead. “I don’t know, it’s one thing when it’s a wyvern or a cockatrice trying to kill me. They’re animals. They’re just trying to eat, they don’t know any better. But he was a person, Geralt. He took the time to weigh whether I was worth more alive or dead and he decided to kill me. My life didn’t mean a damn thing to him. And I know this probably sounds ridiculous to you, because loads of people have tried to kill you. You’ve probably never had a nightmare in your life—”

“I have nightmares.”

Jaskier is stunned silent for a moment, because the idea of Geralt being frightened by anything is almost preposterous. The man is practically invincible. “What about?”

“Blaviken.”

Jaskier winces. “Shit, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Jaskier, you can stop apologizing,” Geralt says. “Mostly, I dream about Renfri.”

“Who is Renfri?” Jaskier remembers the name as one of the ones Geralt whispered in his cursed sleep.

“That was the Shrike’s real name. She was young, a bit younger than you. A princess. Stregobor had her chased out of her home. She was brutalized by the man he sent to kill her. So she went on the road, gathered a group of followers, and began planning revenge.”

“She killed a lot of people, right?” 

“She did what she thought she had to do to survive and to get Stregobor’s attention. That day, at Blaviken, she was going to start killing villagers unless Stregobor came down from his tower and surrendered himself.”

“Stregobor doesn’t seem like the self-sacrificing type.”

“He’s not,” Geralt says. “Stregobor was never going to give into her demands, so I fought and killed her men. When I saw that she had taken a child hostage, I fought and killed her too. It seemed like the lesser evil at the time. Now, I wonder if I should have dragged Stregobor down from the tower and handed him to her myself.”

His voice sounds utterly bleak. “You did what you had to do,” Jaskier tells him.

“Had I known everything I know now, I could have helped her. But I was still young, relatively speaking, and an idiot.” He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s normal to have nightmares in this line of work. I dream about the moment I stabbed Renfri almost every night. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Jaskier swallows back the sudden lump in his throat. “Thanks.”

“I would understand if you don’t want to do this anymore.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying!” Jaskier shakes his head. “I don’t want to stop. The last few months have been the best of my life. I just need to figure out some way to clear my head.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier tries to insert some levity into the conversation. “Who knows, maybe this graveir will be nightmare-worthy enough that I’ll forget all about the assassin.”

“You know that you’re safe here tonight, don’t you?” Geralt asks. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Fuck, Jaskier loves him so much right now. He wants nothing more than to close the gap between them. “I know.”

“Try to get some rest, Jaskier.”

And to his surprise, Jaskier does.

***

The next night, it doesn’t take long for the graveir to show itself. They’ve only been sitting in the graveyard for a couple of hours when they see an outline of an enormous, vaguely humanoid shape lumbering among the headstones.

“Stay here,” Geralt says shortly.

Jaskier eyes the thing with trepidation. He can’t make out many details, but what he sees isn’t encouraging. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Jaskier, I hardly remember my mother, but that doesn’t mean I want another one.”

“Fine.” Jaskier throws up his hands in surrender. “Just be careful.”

“Careful doesn’t get monsters slain.” Before Jaskier can protest, Geralt closes the door behind him and Jaskier is alone in a car in the middle of a graveyard with a graveir prowling around.

This is his least favorite part of the hunt, when Jaskier’s only job is to sit and wait for something to happen. Geralt is somewhere in the graveyard, stalking the graveir, and Jaskier can’t see him. He can’t see the graveir either. Jaskier double checks to make sure that Roach’s doors are locked and then sits very still, as if any movement will attract the monster to him.

There’s a spray of snow to his right and Jaskier looks around to see Geralt sliding across the ground, thrown backwards like a soccer ball. The graveir comes lumbering after him, maw wide open to show razor-like teeth. There aren’t many things that dwarf Geralt, but next to the graveir, the Witcher looks like a doll. Still, Geralt doesn’t hesitate. He lunges to his feet and casts Aard at the thing. The graveir barely flinches.

Jaskier watches them battle. He never gets tired of watching Geralt in a fight. The brutal, yet graceful way he swings his sword. How he dodges and weaves around his opponents with ease. Those leather pants. But something is different tonight. Geralt’s movements are slower and jerkier. He’s tiring out already, Jaskier realizes, and the graveir shows no signs of slowing down.

The graveir swipes at Geralt and catches the Witcher across the chest with its massive arm. Geralt goes flying and slams into a marble statue of an angel and slides to the ground. Jaskier holds his breath as the graveir rounds on Geralt. Geralt isn’t standing up. He isn’t even moving.

“Shit.” Even as he realizes that Geralt will kill him for this, Jaskier scrambles out of the car. “Hey, you!”

The graveir turns. Its face is something out of a nightmare and Jaskier draws back against Roach, suddenly regretting all his life decisions. But Geralt still isn’t moving, so Jaskier continues. “Hey, I have way more bone marrow in me than he does! And it’s fresh, not five hundred years old! Want a taste?”

The graveir takes a step towards Jaskier. The ground trembles under its feet. Jaskier draws the silver knife from his coat, even as he knows that Geralt was right yesterday. If the graveir gets close enough that Jaskier can reach it to stab it, Jaskier is already dead. The graveir looms over him and Jaskier’s nostrils fill with the scent of rot and blood. The hand clutching the dagger shakes as he lifts it.

There’s a roar, as inhuman as the graveir’s, and Geralt leaps onto the graveir’s back. The creature bellows and turns, but it’s too late for it. Geralt’s sword buries in its chin and black blood gushes down its front. It utters a surprisingly pitiful whimper and goes slack. Its falling body narrowly avoids hitting Jaskier and Roach.

Geralt leaps to his feet and Jaskier flinches. The Witcher’s eyes are entirely black and even though Jaskier knows at this point that Geralt would never hurt him, Geralt radiates rage. Not irritation or frustration, but pure, unadulterated anger that Jaskier isn’t used to being directed at him.

“What the fuck was that?” Geralt shouts.

“You weren’t getting up.”

“I was playing dead to catch it unaware!”

“Well, you’re a really good actor then.” Jaskier tries not to think about the last time he was cornered by an angry Witcher. This is Geralt, not the assassin. “I was trying to help. I thought you were hurt.”

“Help? You could have died! How would that help?”

“I don’t know, by giving you the time to get up?” The cornered animal feeling is starting to overpower the logical side of Jaskier’s mind that knows he’s not in any danger.

His anxiety must show in his expression, because Geralt takes a step back and softens his voice. “Did it bite you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“That was fucking stupid, Jaskier.”

Jaskier lets out a shaky little laugh. His heart is still racing. “Trust me, I know.”

***

They don’t talk for the rest of the evening. Not on the way to the police station with the graveir’s head wrapped up in the backseat. Not when they stop at the gas station for coffee. And not on the long drive back to Posada. Jaskier tries to fill the awkward silence a few times, but he doesn’t even get a grunt from Geralt. The Witcher doesn’t so much as look at him. Jaskier quickly gives up on easing the tension and stares out the window at the snowy landscape.

“Well, this was fun,” Jaskier says, jumping out of Roach as soon as Geralt pulls up in front of his building. “See you at Ciri’s training tomorrow, I guess.”

He starts to hurry towards his building, head ducked against the cold, but pauses when he hears Geralt calling his name. He turns to find the Witcher standing outside of Roach, hands jammed into his pocket.

“Geralt, I don’t need another lecture,” Jaskier says. “I get it, I fucked up. I’d say it won’t happen again, but let’s be real here, I—”

“We can’t do this anymore.”

Jaskier hears the words, but they’re a string of meaningless syllables to him. “What?”

“This wasn’t supposed to be a permanent arrangement. I got some good PR and you got the blog posts you wanted. It’s time we go our separate ways.”

Jaskier can’t speak for a moment. He searches the Witcher’s face for some curl of his lip or quirk of his brow to give away that this is just a joke. But that’s not Geralt. He’s a lot of things, but never cruel. “Why?”

“Because it’s time.”

“Is this about the graveir? Because I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interfered, but you were on the ground and I thought you were hurt.”

“It’s not about the graveir.”

“Then why?” Shock and hurt is starting to give way to anger. Anger is good; Jaskier can work with anger.

“You’re having nightmares,” Geralt says.

“That shouldn’t count against me! You’re the one who told me that nightmares were normal.”

“You were frightened of me earlier, in the graveyard.”

“Because you are very large and you were very angry and I have some survival instincts, despite what you might think.”

“This isn’t the life for you. You deserve a normal, monster-free life without nightmares.”

“You don’t get to make that decision.” Jaskier takes a step closer to Geralt. “Give me a real reason, Geralt. Why don’t you want me to travel with you anymore?”

The Witcher’s eyes flash and he moves towards Jaskier, so fast that Jaskier’s eyes don’t register him coming towards him until Geralt is standing directly in front of him. Jaskier isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but it definitely isn’t for the Witcher to grab him by the front of the shirt, drag him towards him, and kiss him.

Jaskier has imagined kissing Geralt a thousand times, in a thousand different places. He’s imagined everything from sweet, gentle kisses by moonlight to being taken roughly in Roach’s backseat. Being kissed by Geralt is nothing like he imagined. Geralt’s kisses are desperate, almost hungry. He’s all lips and tongue and hands and, oh gods, _teeth_. Jaskier forgets what they were arguing about. He’s pretty sure he forgets his own name. The world is narrowed down to the scent of leather and chamomile, calloused hands buried in his hair, and the rasp of stubble against the skin of his throat.

Suddenly, Geralt pulls away. Jaskier moans and leans in for another kiss, but the Witcher steps back. His face is inscrutable. “That,” he says gruffly, “is why.”

Before Jaskier can reply, or even remember how words are formed, Geralt stalks back to Roach and drives away, leaving Jaskier standing alone on the curb.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I meant to make this a breather chapter. I am so sorry.


	9. Of Dopplers and (Bad) Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month after he and Geralt went their separate ways, Jaskier is still trying to recover from his broken heart. So when Geralt comes around, wanting to reconcile, Jaskier quickly realizes that this is too good to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy February, everybody!
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments on the last chapter! I normally try to reply to all of you individually, but I just didn’t have the spoons this week. Please know that I saw all your comments and appreciated them, though.

Jaskier hates photocopiers. He hates the noises they make. He hates how they always seem to be out of ink or have a paper jam. He hates office coffee. He hates how it always tastes slightly burnt and how there always seems to be some kind of weird office politics concerning who makes the coffee. He hates fluorescent lights. He hates how they make the caramel streaks in his hair look brassy and illuminate every blemish on his face.

Most of all, he hates Geralt of Rivia.

Well, maybe not. He’s absolutely, totally in love with Geralt of Rivia, even after nearly a month of silence from the Witcher, but he’s working on learning to hate him. Because after only a week on a job as a social media manager that should be his dream--he gets to be on the internet all day and he has dental insurance for the first time in his adult life--he wants to pull his hair out. Geralt has ruined him for all work that doesn’t involve monsters and near-death experiences.

The photocopier makes a horrible grinding noise and begins to beep. Another fucking paper jam. Jaskier closes his eyes and tries to imagine that the beeping is the death throes of a basilisk.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he feels that brief surge of hope that he does every time he gets a text. But it’s just Ciri. _Are you coming to training today? Geralt’s teaching me how to throw knives!!!_

Jaskier groans. He hasn’t told Ciri about what happened with Geralt, just like he hasn’t told her about what happened with Calanthe. As a result, he’s barely seen her for the past month. He knows that she’ll know something is wrong as soon as she spends more than five minutes with him. Just another thing to hate Geralt for.

_Not today,_ he texts back. _Things are crazy at work, so I’ll be here late, and then I have a gig tonight. Maybe next time._

Her reply is instantaneous, liken she already knew what his answer would be. _That’s what you said last time._

“Save the phone for your lunch break, Jason!” his boss, Claire, trills as she sails by. Another thing Jaskier hates: bosses. “Better fix that paper jam while you’re at it.”

Jaskier hates paper jams.

“I’m going to take lunch,” he announces to no one in particular, because Claire is already busy hassling another one of her employees about a deadline that’s still a week away.

The one thing he doesn’t hate right now are tacos, and there’s a lovely little food truck a couple of blocks from the office. It’s a nice day, with winter finally giving in to an early spring, so Jaskier walks. He keeps his head down as he goes. Now that he’s pretty much stopped posting on his blog, he doesn’t get recognized as much, but whenever he does, it ruins his day. He doesn’t want to answer questions about Geralt. He doesn’t want to think about Geralt.

His gig tonight is at the bar where he first encountered Geralt six months ago. Six months since Jaskier met Geralt. Five months since they started traveling together. Two months since the assassin. One month since Geralt kissed him and drove away. It’s unbelievable that so much excitement, fear, and heartbreak has been crammed into those few short months. Jaskier shakes the thought away. He really needs to clear his head before tonight. Miserable musicians make for low-energy performances. 

A young woman bumps into him. “Sorry!” she says brightly and smiles at him. Jaskier smiles back, because he might be miserable, but he’s not dead, and she’s cute. He hopes she’ll stop to chat, but she hurries on by, so he keeps going.

He doesn’t notice the woman duck into the narrow alleyway between a barbershop and a florist. He doesn’t notice her hair darkening and growing shorter, her eyes shifting from hazel to blue, her growing taller and her shoulder broadening while her hips narrow. A perfect mirror image of Jaskier, down to the tiny coffee stain on the sleeve of his shirt, stands there. The doppler takes a moment to examine its new body, smiles approvingly, and heads in the opposite direction.

***

A knife sails through the air, bounces off the target, and falls harmlessly to the ground. Ciri lets out a despairing groan.

“You’re doing well,” Geralt tells her.

“I haven’t gotten a single knife to stick!”

“You’re hitting the target. The rest will come with practice.” Geralt is surprised and pleased by how well Ciri has taken to training in the last two months. She’s quick on her feet, resilient, and a fast learner. Two hundred years ago, she would have made a good queen.

Ciri pouts. “This is harder than it looks in the movies.”

“Everything is harder than it looks in the movies.” At least, Geralt assumes so. He doesn’t watch many movies. If Jaskier were here, he would have some snippy comment about Geralt’s age and knowledge of movies at the ready. Geralt brushes the thought away.

“We should get you home,” he says. “I have a contract to take care of a wraith tonight.”

She visibly perks up. “Can I come?”

“No.”

“Come on, I think I’m ready to come on monster hunts.”

“You may be, but your grandmother isn’t ready for that and I’m not ready for her wrath.”

Ciri giggles at that. “Is Jaskier coming?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Geralt bends to retrieve the knives littering the lawn. “He’s moved on to other stories.”

“No, he hasn’t. His blog has been dead for the past month and now he has some boring office job. Did you guys have a fight or something? He won’t talk to me about it. I hardly see him anymore. He’s fighting with Gran too, I think. Not that he’ll talk to me about that either.” Ciri crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m fifteen, you know. You guys can tell me about things.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Of course there isn’t.” She makes a face that reminds him painfully of Jaskier.

“Let’s get you home,” Geralt says again, since he’s not sure what else to say.

“Actually, can you drop me off at a friend’s house? It’s close to here. I’m going to a sleepover tonight.” Ciri rolls her eyes. “Livia’s not really a friend. She’s dating my friend Martin, but I have to make nice because she’s jealous because Martin used to like me, so I’m going to this stupid sleepover at her house with her stupid friends. We have nothing in common. They all play soccer and that’s all they ever want to talk about.”

“Hm.”

Ciri sighs. “And these are the things I would talk to Jaskier about if he was ever around anymore.”

“Jaskier is a better person to talk to than me.”

“I know that, but I only see him when he drives me to school twice a week.”

Geralt says nothing. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to apologize for Jaskier’s absence in her life. He didn’t tell Jaskier to stop talking to her. He only did what he had to do. This life was too dangerous for Jaskier. His own confused feelings for Jaskier were making it even more dangerous. 

Geralt just wishes that he could convince himself of that. 

***

Killing a wraith should make him feel better, but the hunt is too easy. The creature is so weak that it hardly puts up a fight. When Geralt arrives home later that night, he’s in a worse mood than he was when he set out. His mood is worsened when he finds a familiar figure sitting on his front step.

“I just want to talk.” Jaskier smiles uncertainly up at him.

Geralt grunts in response. He doesn’t know what to say, and Jaskier always seems to read whatever it is he wants to hear in Geralt’s grunts.

“Look, we ended things on a bad note,” Jaskier says. “I don’t want to leave things off like that. So I brought some beer.” He hoists a six pack. “And I figured we could clear the air. It would mean a lot to Ciri if we were talking again.”

“Hm.”

“Geralt, I’m not asking to start working together again,” Jaskier says, exasperated. “I’d just like us to be able to be friendly.”

“Friendly?”

“Not as friendly as we were the last time we saw each other.” Jaskier smiles a very un-Jaskier like smile. It’s almost wolfish. Geralt doesn’t like it.

Geralt brushes by him to get to the door. “You should have called first.”

“You never pick up your phone.” Jaskier scrambles to his feet. “Do you even know where your phone is right now?”

Geralt pauses, considering. “Upstairs, I think. Or maybe in Roach.”

“My point exactly. So, can I come in?”

“Fine.”

“Nice seeing you too.” Jaskier strides into the house like he owns the place, as per usual. “Remind me where your beer bottle opener is?”

“To the left of the fridge.”

“It’s the fruity beer you pretend not to like,” Jaskier says as he opens two bottles.

“Hm.” Geralt takes the offered bottle, despite his reservations about beer that tastes like juice. He doesn’t care what kind of beer it is, so long as it will help him through this conversation.

“I’m doing great, Geralt, thanks for asking. I just started a new job at a start-up downtown. I’m the social media manager. Don’t ask me what that means, because I haven’t really figured it out yet. So far, it’s just making photocopies and watching a lot of cat videos.”

“Do you like it?”

“Not at all,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “But the pay isn’t terrible and it’s in a good location. There’s a great food truck nearby.”

“Good.” Geralt takes a sip of his beer. It’s as terrible as he remembers; he doesn’t know how Jaskier drinks this stuff.

“Look.” Jaskier runs his fingers through his hair and smiles shyly at Geralt. Geralt does not notice that his hair has grown longer since the last time they saw each other; soft waves frame Jaskier’s face. “I’m just going to put it out there. I miss you.”

“Jaskier—”

“Yeah, I know, Geralt. Like I said, I’m not here to start working with you again. 9 to 5 jobs and monster hunting don’t really go together. But I’d still like to be in each other’s lives. You know how I feel about you.”

“I know.”

“And given that the last time we saw each other, you stuck your tongue down my throat, I think you may feel the same way.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier puts down his beer and crosses the room to stand in front of Geralt. “We could try to make this work, if you want to, at least.”

Geralt tries not to show his reaction to the musician’s sudden proximity. Jaskier smells different; his usual scents of aftershave and cheap laundry detergent are gone. “There’s nothing to make work.”

Jaskier doesn’t flinch. “You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t want you being put in danger again. There have been too many close calls.”

“So we keep me away from monsters from now on.”

“I’m a Witcher. The monsters tend to come to me.”

“And then you’ll keep me safe. You always do.” 

The closer he gets, the harder it is for Geralt to keep his composure. “It’s not a good idea, Jaskier.”

“I’m not interested in good ideas right now.” Jaskier leans closer so his forehead is pressed against Geralt’s.

Geralt feels his resolve melt away. He’s about to lean in and finally kiss this ridiculous, persistent human when he feels the sizzle of magic against his skin and Jaskier leaps back. A blue cage of light springs up around Geralt. The Witcher looks down and finds a triangle of pale blue stones on the ground around him. He reaches for one, but the light repels him and he jerks back.

“We wouldn’t do that,” Jaskier says in a sing-song voice. “The force field is strong enough to hurt even a Witcher. It can only be taken down from the outside.”

“What the fuck is this, Jaskier?” Tentatively, Geralt presses a hand against the blue light. It stings like a bitch. He jerks his hand back.

“We told you, don’t touch it. We really are sorry about this, Geralt, but it’s best for everyone if you’re detained for a few hours. If it makes you feel any better, everything we just said is exactly how this one feels.”

The clues click into place. Jaskier’s different scent, his wolfish smile, his sudden brazenness. All things Geralt would have picked up on, had he not been knocked so off-kilter by the musician’s presence. “You’re a doppler.”

The doppler wearing Jaskier’s face circles Geralt slowly. “This one has so many interesting things in his head. All kinds of knowledge that someone is willing to pay handsomely for.”

Fuck. If it has Jaskier’s memories, it knows about Ciri. Geralt slams his hands against the force field, ignoring the sting. “What did you do to him?”

“Why? We thought you didn’t want him in your life.”

“If you’ve hurt him—”

“He’s fine, Witcher. Brokenhearted, but fine. Did you know he’s in love with you?”

Geralt’s jaw clenches.

“You should see the inside of his head. He would die for you. He would follow you anywhere. And you took that loyalty and rewarded it by abandoning him. We suppose what they say about Witchers is true. You are heartless.” The doppler runs its hands down its arms and chest. “We do enjoy this one’s body. We will miss it.”

“Don’t touch him,” Geralt growls, which is irrational. The thing isn’t actually touching Jaskier’s body.

The doppler laughs. Its laugh is painfully like Jaskier’s. “Don’t worry, Witcher. Now that we have you detained, we just need to get close to him. And we can’t do that looking like this, now can we?”

Geralt has seen dopplers change shape before. It’s always a disconcerting process, as human features shift and twist in a way they should not. He watches as Jaskier’s face broadens, as his hair lengthens and lightens, and he grows more muscular. In a moment, a perfect replica of Geralt stands in front of them.

“Oh, we can work with this body too.” The doppler stares down at its hands, smiling. “So strong. We could snap his neck with our bare hands, couldn’t we?”

Geralt tries, and fails, not to think of what this thing could do to trusting, lovelorn Jaskier. He casts Aard, but all it does is ricochet off the force field, slamming Geralt backwards. He can’t stop a grunt of pain from escaping him.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Witcher. Not yet.” The doppler looks delighted. “Your friend is playing a show tonight at the bar where you two met. We think we might stop by and see how he’s doing.”

“No,” Geralt says. “Whatever you want, you can get from me. Leave him out of this.”

“It’s too late for that, Witcher.” The doppler’s grin shows all its teeth. “We’ll do you a favor. If we have to kill him, we’ll do it quickly.”

***

The bar on the outskirts of Posada is busier than the last time Jaskier was here. There are two bachelorette parties and a twenty-first birthday party, as well as plenty of regulars crowded at the bar. Connor the hot bartender still works here and tried to flirt with Jaskier when he arrived, but Jaskier isn’t interested. Connor has grown a truly unfortunate patch of facial hair on his chin that looks more like he just forgot to shave rather than an actual attempt at a beard. It almost makes Jaskier feel cheerful.

He keeps reminding himself that he didn’t actually meet Geralt here; they met a half a mile or so down the road. He never saw the Witcher here; he can’t even be certain where Geralt was sitting. There’s no reason for the small, unremarkable space to be so infused with memories of Geralt.

The crowd has a good energy. Both bachelorette parties dance along to the music, no matter what Jaskier is playing, which means that there’s also a good amount of men on the dance floor. “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher,” is a hit as always, even if Jaskier isn’t entirely up to his normal level of enthusiasm when he sings it.

When Jaskier sees Geralt standing by the door, he briefly wonders if the dim lighting and the couple of beers he’s had are catching up to him, but when the Witcher moves closer, Jaskier sees that it’s undoubtedly Geralt. Same white hair, same sour expression, same glorious body. Jaskier wants to laugh as much as he wants to cry. Of course Geralt would turn up here tonight, of all nights.

He had originally been meaning to play the bruxa song next, but he changes his plan as soon as he claps eyes on Geralt. He begins strumming a slow, melancholy tune on the lute. _“The fairer sex they often call it, but her love’s as unfair as a crook. It steals all my reason, commits every treason of logic with naught but a look.”_

Geralt is staring at him, golden eyes bright in the darkness. Jaskier can’t quite keep his voice from wavering at he sings.

_“She’s always bad news, it’s always lose, lose. So tell me love, tell me love, how is that just?”_

Slowly, Geralt moves towards him. The human bar patrons move out of his way without seeming to realize what they’re doing. Jaskier keeps his gaze locked on Geralt as he sings. 

_“I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting. If this is the path I must trudge, I’ll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance, garroter, jury and judge.”_

Geralt is now so close, he could reach out and touch Jaskier. But he stands back, watching Jaskier play with his normal neutral expression. Jaskier can’t take his eyes off of him.

_”The story is this, she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss.”_ The song gets a cheer as it warbles to a close. Jaskier takes a moment to catch his breath, then says, “And that’s it for tonight. Thank you!”

Clutching his lute for dear life, Jaskier takes a tentative step towards Geralt. “Hi.”

Geralt nods. “Jaskier.”

“That song isn’t about you, by the way,” Jaskier says quickly. “You might remember, I was writing it before…well, before. Nothing to do with you at all. Anyway, what brings you here? More wyverns?”

“Ciri said you were playing here tonight.”

“Did she?’ Jaskier doesn’t remember telling Ciri where he was playing, but he must have said something when he brought her to school that morning.

Geralt smiles and his head tilts to the side. “It’s a beautiful song.”

Jaskier can’t remember the last time Geralt had any commentary on Jaskier’s singing except for “shut the fuck up.” “Thanks, Geralt. Um, not to be an asshole, but what the hell are you doing here?” Before Geralt can answer, he continues, “Wait, no, I’m okay with being an asshole. You deserve some asshole thrown your way, because last time we saw each other, you were a complete and total dick.”

“I missed you,” Geralt says, cutting off any further ranting.

Jaskier gapes at him. “What?”

“I missed you,” Geralt repeats. “I’m here to make amends.”

“Amends,” Jaskier echoes dumbly.

“I was cruel. And I was selfish. I’m sorry. You deserve better than how I acted.”

Jaskier has fantasized about this moment many times in the last month. He always had more time to be righteously indignant before the groveling started. “Yeah, I do.”

“I would like the chance to make it up to you.” The Witcher’s eyes flicker to Jaskier’s mouth, and then down the length of his body.

Jaskier’s mouth goes dry. “How would you like to do that?”

“We could go somewhere quieter to talk. If you’d like to.”

“Wow, Geralt, you must feel really bad if you want to talk.”

Geralt’s lips quirk and he reaches out to brush his knuckles across Jaskier’s cheekbone. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” Jaskier shivers at the touch. 

“Your place is closer. Leave your car. We’ll take Roach.”

“Okay.” Dazedly, Jaskier gathers up his things and follows Geralt out of the bar. “You sure you’re not here to kill a wyvern?”

“I’m sure I could find one, for old time’s sake.”

“No, thank you.”

Geralt seems more relaxed in the car than usual, with only one hand on the steering wheel while the other rests on the gear shift. He keeps glancing over at Jaskier. Jaskier can’t take his eyes off the Witcher or get rid of the anxiety fluttering in his gut. When Geralt runs a stop sign, he arches an eyebrow.

“A little eager to get to my place?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Obviously, but not so eager I want to die in a fiery crash.”

Geralt smiles. “You know you’re safe with me.”

Roach’s tires squeal as they make the turn onto Maple Street and Jaskier winces. The walk from the parking lot up to Jaskier’s apartment is agonizingly long. Geralt seems unable to stop touching Jaskier, be it a hand pressed to his lower back, hip bumping against Jaskier’s, or his palm brushing Jaskier’s wrist. Jaskier can count the times Geralt has touched him before today on one hand.

Jaskier’s apartment is a mess, with dishes piled in the sink, pizza boxes on the counter, and a half dozen socks abandoned in front of the couch, but Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. Jaskier is going to apologize for the clutter, but before he gets the words out, Geralt drags Jaskier towards him and kisses him.

When they break apart, Jaskier is breathless. “What brought this on?”

“What brought what on?” Geralt nuzzles the side of his neck.

“Well, last time we kissed, you drove away and didn’t talk to me for a month. I didn’t think you were looking for a round two.”

“I already apologized for that.”

“Yeah, but what changed?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” Geralt nips at Jaskier’s earlobes.

Jaskier takes a step back. “I’ll be right back. I need to change. Pretty sure I got ketchup on this shirt.”

“I can help.”

“No, I’ve got this. I’ll be back. Make yourself comfortable. I’d offer you a beer, but I don’t have anything you’d like in the fridge.” Jaskier backs towards his bedroom door, not taking his eyes off of Geralt.

“Hurry back.” Geralt’s lips curl into a smile.

“Yep, I’m hurrying.” Jaskier closes the door behind him and fumbles for his phone. The phone rings for what feels like an eternity before his own voice tells him to leave a message after the beep. He gave up after weeks of trying to get Geralt to record a greeting for his voicemail box and just did it himself.

“Geralt,” he says in a low voice. “If it’s actually you standing in my living room, we’re about to have a very awkward conversation, but I don’t think it is. We’re at my apartment and I’m pretty sure this thing is here to kill me, so please stop ignoring me and come help.” He hesitates, “Also, if I’m about to die, you’re an asshole, but I love you. Bye.”

His bedroom door opens and the Not Geralt stands there, his shoulders filling the doorway. “We’re curious,”he says. “What gave it away?”

Jaskier takes a step backwards. “You were trying way too hard to be charming. Plus, the driving. Geralt never so much as goes over the speed limit. And the touching. Geralt never touches me like that.”

“Doesn’t he?” The imposter makes a tsking noise. “Pity. He wants to.”

Jaskier mentally files that under “tidbits of information to obsess over later, if he survives this.”

“I thought dopplers were extinct,” he says.

“We are, just like Witchers.” The doppler’s smile is too wide. Jaskier can’t believe he ever thought this thing was Geralt.

“I also thought you were friendly tricksters.”

“Friendly trickery doesn’t pay the bills.”

“What do you want?” Jaskier asks.

“Well, we wanted information,” the doppler says. “But everything we wanted to learn, we gleaned from your mind and the Witcher’s.”

So this thing took Jaskier’s shape at some point. Jaskier shudders at the invasion. “So now what?”

“Well, now there’s a wayward princess to wrangle.” Slowly, the doppler moves towards him. Now that it’s not trying to be charming, it resembles Geralt much more.

Fuck, of course this is about Ciri. “Stregobor sent you.”

“He’s very interested in your little princess.”

“I won’t let you use me against her.”

“It’s adorable that you think you have a choice.” The doppler takes two long strides towards Jaskier, crowding him backwards.

Jaskier fights not to let his panic show. “What did you do with Geralt?”

“He’s indisposed.”

“I swear, if he’s hurt—”

“Gods, not this again. You sound just like him.”

“Where is he?” Jaskier chokes out.

“Safe and sound at home,” the doppler says. “He may even stay that way. We’re curious, if you have to choose between Ciri and Geralt, which one will you choose?”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, Ciri, of course. Your darling surrogate little sister. It’s a bit sad to have a best friend who can’t even drive yet, don’t you think? But you were never very good at making friends. Acquaintances, but not friends. You have a bad habit of fucking them once they get too close to you. Isn’t that what you were planning on doing with the Witcher?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“But we’ve been in both your minds, remember? We’ve seen everything you two don’t want each other to see.” The doppler lunges forward and seizes Jaskier by the neck, squeezing. For a terrifying moment, Jaskier gasps and claws at its hands. Then it laughs and loosens its grip. “You dream about this, don’t you? You think you would have been able to fuck him when you keep dreaming about him killing you?”

Jaskier closes his eyes. Seeing the manic glint in Not Geralt’s eyes is too wrong.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” the doppler says. Jaskier can feel its breath on his neck. “Are you scared or horny?”

“Stop wearing his face.”

“But it’s such a good face. We were sad to give yours up, but this one is so strong.” It tightens its grip for emphasis.

“I’m not going to help you get to Ciri, so you might as well kill me.” Jaskier means for the words to come out strong and fearless, but his voice cracks on the word “kill.”

“But you don’t want to die, do you? You want to live so badly. Do you still think that the Witcher is going to come save you?” When Jaskier doesn’t answer, it laughs. “You do. You think that he’s going to come bursting through that door at any moment. Because he always does. At least he did until he decided you weren’t worth his time.”

Jaskier tries to shove the creature. It pushes back, slamming him against the nightstand. He reaches back to grab the edge of the nightstand, his fingernails scraping against the wood.

“Luckily for you, we don’t need you to get to the princess,” the doppler says. “We know where she is, and with you and the Witcher out of the way, she’s easy to snatch.”

Slowly, Jaskier works the nightstand drawer open and finds the handle of one of the knives. Gods, he hopes it’s the silver one. “This was just a distraction, wasn’t it? You’re just here to get us out of the way so Stregobor can get to Ciri.”

The doppler chuckles. “Please don’t have your feelings hurt. We have enjoyed our time together. We think we’ll even keep this one for a while after you and the Witcher are gone. Such lovely eyes.”

Jaskier knows the longer he thinks about it, the more likely he is to lose his nerve. He plunges the knife into the doppler’s chest.

The doppler’s lip curls. “Steel? You think steel can kill us? You jackass, don’t you know—”

Jaskier seizes the handle of a second knife and drives it into the doppler’s eye. The doppler jerks violently and releases Jaskier. It falls to the ground and a moment later, Geralt’s shocked face melts away into something that barely looks human. Jaskier can feel the bile rising in his throat. He just killed something. It wasn’t human, but it was still sentient. But there’s no time to melt down about this right now. Jaskier barrels out of his apartment and bangs on Calanthe’s door.

It takes a moment for Calanthe to answer. There’s a sleep mask pushed up on her forehead and she looks livid. “Jaskier, what the hell are—”

“Where’s Ciri?” Jaskier pushes his way into the apartment, nearly tripping over a disgruntled Mousesack.

“At a sleepover. It’s after midnight, Jaskier. What are you doing?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “There was a doppler. It looked like Geralt. It was here to get Geralt and me out of the way. Stregobor knows about Ciri and he’s here for her.”

Calanthe’s face turns a ghastly gray. “Oh, gods.”

“Where is the sleepover?”

“At her friend Livia’s house, over near the river.”

Jaskier closes his eyes. “Good, Stregobor won’t know to look for her there. That might buy us some time. We need to get Geralt and then we need to get to her.”

“You said that the doppler looked like Geralt?”

Jaskier shudders and nods. He can’t stop shaking and he still feels like he might be sick.

“Geralt’s the one who dropped her off at Livia’s house this afternoon,” Calanthe says in a near whisper. “If he knows where she was, then so did the doppler.”

***

The twenty minute drive to Geralt’s townhouse feels like an eternity. Jaskier apologizes to Roach with every too-sharp turn he takes and every curb he jumps. His mind vacillates frantically between terror for Ciri, terror for Geralt, and residual terror for himself. He has to squeeze the steering wheel as tight as he can to stop his hands from trembling.

“Geralt?” He stumbles out of Roach, almost forgetting to put the car into park, and sprints towards the house. The door is unlocked and Jaskier pushes it open to find a six pack of his favorite beer sitting on the counter and Geralt’s swords discarded on the couch. Geralt stands on the opposite side of the living room, encased in a cage of blue light.

“Geralt!” Jaskier rushes towards him. The Witcher appears unharmed, from what he can see through the force field. “Are you okay? What is this thing? How do I get you out?”

“Don’t touch it,” Geralt barks as Jaskier reaches for the force field. “You’ll need to move one of the stones. No, not directly. Use my sword.”

Jaskier does as he says. All he needs is to bump one of the stones out of place and the force field vanishes with a hiss. Geralt lurches out of the circle of stones. For a moment, Jaskier thinks the Witcher is going to embrace him, but instead Geralt jerks a knife out of his boot and holds it out to Jaskier.

“Silver,” he says by way of explanation.

“Wait, you think I’m the doppler?” Jaskier blinks at him. “You think I just ran across town to save you from the trap I put you in?”

“I need to be sure. It was convincing.”

“Not to me. He actually seemed to like me. It was a dead giveaway.” Still, Jaskier takes the knife and pricks his finger.

When Jaskier’s face doesn’t melt into a fleshy blob, Geralt seems to relax. “Are you alright?”

“I thought you were dead,” Jaskier says, unable to take his eyes off the Witcher. Thinking of the doppler’s charming smile, he can’t figure out how he was fooled for even a minute. “I thought that thing had killed you.”

“Where is it?”

“Dead. Silver knife to the eye.” Jaskier swallows back the sick feeling in his throat.

“You killed it?” Geralt’s eyebrows lift and he looks mildly impressed.

“I didn’t have much choice. It was here as a distraction. It just needed to get us out of the way so Stregobor can get to Ciri.”

Geralt seizes his swords off the couch. “Where is she?”

“Calanthe is getting her from her friend’s house. I told her we’d meet her over there. We need to go.”

Geralt nods jerkily. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Jaskier doesn’t know if “alright” is the right word for the tangle of feelings inside him right now, but he just nods. “You too.”

Geralt looks like he might say something else, but Jaskier’s phone vibrates. It’s a call from Calanthe. Before Jaskier can say so much as “hello,” Calanthe says in a ragged voice, “Ciri and her friends snuck out of the house. She wandered away from them and now we can’t find her anywhere. She’s gone.”

***

Ciri is having more fun than she expected at the sleepover. Sure, Livia and her friends talk about soccer way too much, and she’s tired of listening to Livia prattle on about Martin, but the pizza, manicures, and movies portion of the night was fun. It was Ciri’s idea to sneak out and go sit by the river after Livia’s parents were in bed. It wasn’t her idea to steal a bottle of Livia’s dad’s scotch though. That was all Livia. Though Ciri isn’t complaining. The scotch burns as it goes down her throat, but she’s enjoying the bubbly, giggly feeling it causes.

The girls sit on the edge of a bridge overlooking the river, legs swinging. The bridge is made of stone and concrete, not rope and loose wooden planks, or Ciri wouldn’t go anywhere near it. She keeps an eye on the other girls as they pass the bottle back and forth and giggle. She’s positioned herself in the middle of the group so she’ll be able to catch any of them if they fall.

Ciri’s grandmother is always bothering her to make friends who aren’t Jaskier, and Ciri does try and make friends. She has Lazlo and Martin and a couple of girls from her homeroom. But the process of making friends has always been harder than it’s worth. Ciri’s the exiled princess of a long-dead city state. Someday, she’ll take on Nilfgaard and probably end up dead. She doesn’t have much in common with her classmates.

But tonight, she’s letting herself be Ciri Ryan, high school freshman. Tomorrow, she can go back to being Cirilla Fiona Elen Rhiannon, the last heir of Cintra.

Ciri isn’t aware that she’s standing up until her feet are solidly on the ground and she’s walking away from the other girls.

“Ciri, where are you going?” Livia calls after her.

“I’ll be right back,” Ciri hears herself say, but the words seem far away. She walks until she can’t hear the chatter of the other girls’ voices, then stops and looks around, confused. She’s on an unfamiliar residential street and there’s no one around. The river and her friends are nowhere in sight.

“Hello, Cirilla.” She jumps and turns around to see an older man with gray hair standing behind her, smiling pleasantly. “I’ve heard so much about you. I think it’s time you and I had a chat.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re almost to the end! There are only two more chapters left. The next one will be the big final showdown, and then the last chapter will be a short and sweet epilogue. (Actually short and sweet, not like the graveir chapter.) Thank you all for continuing to stick with me!
> 
> The next chapter may not be up towards the end of next week; I want to take the time to get it right. Thanks for your patience!


	10. Of Barghests and Battles Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Ciri is captured, Jaskier, Geralt, Calanthe, and the sorceresses rush to get her back before it’s too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is going to come as a complete shock to all of you, but this chapter ended up being way longer than I expected, so I decided to split it into two parts. This is becoming the story of my life.
> 
> Content warning: There's a brief description of torture. I tried not to make it too graphic, but proceed with caution.

“I’ll admit.” Stregobor paces in front of Ciri. “I always thought that the rumors of the surviving Rhiannons were mere fairy tales.”

Ciri stays silent, her eyes wandering the tiny brick room the sorcerer has locked her in. There are no doors or windows; portaling seems to be the only way to escape. She’s not tied up or gagged, which she finds incredibly insulting. Stregobor obviously doesn’t see her as a threat. Though she knows if she kills him, she’ll probably rot in this cell forever.

“The emperors of Nilfgaard have always had a special disdain for Cintra,” Stregobor continues, as if this is all news to Ciri. “They left most of the cities they conquered somewhat intact, but they attempted to obliterate Cintra and its people. But the current emperor has long been obsessed with the rumors of the surviving Rhiannons. There have been false leads before, and the people who misled him were brutally punished. I must make certain of who you are before I bring you to the emperor’s attention.”

When Ciri speaks, she doesn’t have to fake the tremor in her voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. My name is Ciri Ryan. I’ve never even been to Cintra.”

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Ryan. Did you know that Fiona and Elen are both Rhiannon family names?”

“There are at least three Fionas and two Elens in my class. They’re not unusual names.”

“Do those Fionas and Elens have a scream powerful enough to kill a Witcher?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“There are ways I could get the truth from you.”

She hopes her expression is defiant. “If you think I have a scream that can kill, it would be stupid to torture me.”

“I would never torture a child.” Stregobor puts a finger under Ciri’s chin, forcing her face up so he can study her. “I could wrest the truth from your thoughts, but that would leave your mind broken, and we don’t want that.”

Ciri shrugs off his touch. “I’ve already told you, the only truth is that my name is Ciri Ryan and I’m not a princess. I’m nobody.”

“Then how did my assassin die?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there! Geralt must have killed him. Geralt is going to kill you when he finds out you kidnapped me.”

Stregobor’s lip curls. “I’m not afraid of the Butcher of Blaviken.”

“I think you think that makes you sound tough. It just makes you sound like a dumbass.”

The sorcerer slaps her. It’s not much of a slap, but it still takes Ciri off guard and she stumbles backwards a step.

“I thought you said you didn’t torture kids.” She almost presses a hand to her stinging cheek, but stops herself. She won’t give him the satisfaction.

“That wasn’t torture. That was a reminder of your place. In my day, young ladies didn’t mouth off to their elders.”

Ciri scowls at him. “If I could kill with a scream, your brains would be splattered all over the walls right now.”

The sorcerer doesn’t look frightened. “I think a night alone in here with your thoughts might be good for you. It will serve as a reminder for what will happen if you don’t cooperate.”

Ciri feels a chill, but before she can demand at least a glass or water, if not some food, a portal opens up behind Stregobor and he steps through it, leaving Ciri alone in the dark.

***

The doppler lies dead in the middle of Jaskier’s bedroom, its black blood staining the beige carpet. Geralt kneels down to inspect it closer, his jaw clenched so hard Jaskier imagines he can hear the Witcher’s teeth crack.

“You did well.” Geralt yanks the silver knife out of the doppler’s eye socket.

Jaskier shudders at the squelch. “Thanks.”

Geralt studies the doppler’s corpse for a long moment. From Jaskier’s living room, they can hear Calanthe’s panicked voice as she talks to Tissaia on the phone. Jaskier closes his eyes. All the events of this evening--the doppler, Geralt, Ciri being gone--are all too much. He’s exhausted and scared and his heart hurts, but he has to keep going. He can’t let Stregobor have Ciri.

“What gave it away?” Geralt asks softly.

“The doppler? I told you, he seemed to like me.”

Geralt gives him an unamused look. “What really gave it away?”

Jaskier sighs. “It was a terrible driver and the way it touched me… it obviously wasn’t you.” When Geralt doesn’t say anything, he continues, “You don’t touch me much and when you do, you’re always careful, like you’re afraid you’re going to accidentally break my hand. It wasn’t.”

“Did it hurt you?”

“No. All damage is purely psychological.” Jaskier decides not to mention the choking. Geralt might try and revive the doppler just to kill it again.

The Witcher’s frown deepens at that. “I should have known. It didn’t smell like you. The smile was wrong.”

“So why were you fooled?”

“Because I wanted it to be you.”

Jaskier is stunned speechless for an instant. “Are you fucking kidding me? _You wanted it to be me?_ You could have had me! Anytime in the last six months, all you had to do was say the word. You’re the one who kissed me and drove away. And now you nearly got killed by a doppler because of fucking _wishful thinking_?”

“Jaskier—”

“But no, I get it. I wanted it to be you too. I knew something was weird as soon as we got in the car, but I didn’t admit it to myself until we got back here. It was nice to have you look at me like something other than a pest.”

“I don’t think you’re a pest.” Geralt’s voice is so low that Jaskier can barely hear him.

“Could have fooled me.” Jaskier’s voice cracks. “Did it occur to you that if we’d been talking, the doppler never would have gotten close to us? You would have known where I was tonight. I probably would have been with you. Ciri would be safe.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier waits for the rest of the Witcher’s apology, but it never comes. “The doppler had a better apology than you do.”

“The doppler saw into your mind and knew what you wanted to hear.”

Jaskier shudders. “When this is over, when we get Ciri back, you and I are going to have a conversation. An actual conversation. No hms. No manly grunts. No running off to kill a cockatrice in the middle. It’s long past due.”

He expects an argument from Geralt, or at least annoyance, but all he gets is, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says. “Good, great. By the way, did you ever figure out how to check your voicemail without my help?”

“No.”

“Oh, good. Let’s keep it that way.”

Calanthe sticks her head in. She hasn’t cried once since they got back to the apartment; Jaskier isn’t sure if she’s in shock or too devastated for tears. “They’re on their way. Are you two finished bickering like an old married couple?”

Meekly, Geralt and Jaskier follow Calanthe back into the living room. Jaskier goes to make coffee, because he needs something to do. He tries not to think of where Ciri is right now, or what could be happening to her. He remembers Geralt’s story about poor, dead Renfri the Shrike, and how Stregobor destroyed her life. What will Stregobor do to Ciri? How far will he go to make her a pawn in his power play?

“How did this happen?” Calanthe asks hollowly as Jaskier hands her a mug of coffee. “We were so careful. I made sure that every person connected to Pavetta and Duny’s deaths was killed. I made sure that there was no one out there who knew about Ciri. I’ve spent the last fifteen years doing everything I can to protect her.”

“The assassin happened,” Jaskier says gently.

“Assassins don’t like it when their contracts get canceled,” Geralt says. “It’s a matter of professional pride. Next time you hire one, Calanthe, make sure you mean it.”

Calanthe and Jaskier both stare at him, open-mouthed.

“You told him?” Calanthe asks Jaskier.

Jaskier shakes his head. It’s not that he ever made a conscious decision not to tell Geralt about Calanthe. He just never found the right time and after a while, so much time had passed that it seemed awkward. And it wasn’t that Jaskier thought Geralt would fly into a vengeful rage, hunt Calanthe down, and murder her, but he had spent a day in a coma because of her. It would be understandable if he were tempted.

“He didn’t have to,” Geralt says with a shrug. “Jaskier stopped talking to you after Aretuza. It takes a lot for Jaskier to not want to talk to someone. And there aren’t many people who hire assassins, but stipulate no collateral damage.”

Calanthe eyes him warily. “So, what now?”

“Now, we get Ciri back. You’re not the first person to try and have me killed. I understand your reasons. You would do anything to protect Ciri and Jaskier.” Geralt’s gaze finds Jaskier’s. “I understand how that is.”

Jaskier barely has time to process that before a portal opens in front of his refrigerator, blowing all the magnets and takeout menus across the kitchen. Yennefer comes striding through the portal, followed by Triss, Tissaia, and Sabrina. All four sorceresses look ready for a fight. Sabrina even has a bow and arrows strapped to her back, which Jaskier didn’t see coming, but appreciates all the same.

“What the hell happened?” Yennefer asks by way of greeting. “How did this happen, Geralt?”

Geralt gives her a bewildered look. “I was trapped by a doppler.”

“Let me guess,” Yennefer says sweetly. “The doppler took advantage of the fact that you’ve been off brooding for the past month like a hormonal teenager whose crush won’t go to prom with him.”

Geralt looks so flustered that for a moment, Jaskier wishes Yennefer were around more, because a flustered Geralt is adorable.

“When was Ciri last seen?” Tissaia asks as Triss crosses the room to embrace Jaskier and Calanthe.

“A little after midnight,” Calanthe says into Triss’s shoulder. “She went to a sleepover with friends, but wandered away from them. They’d been drinking and the other girls thought she’d wandered off to be sick. By the time they went to look for her, she was gone.”

“So he’s had her for at least an hour,” Tissaia says.

“He won’t hurt her.” Yennefer goes to stand besides Geralt. Jaskier has a feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve planned a rescue mission together. He tells the jealous twist in his gut that now really isn’t the time.

“That won’t matter if he hands her over to Nilfgaard,” Calanthe says.

Tissaia paces down the length of Jaskier’s living room. “Stregobor is not important enough to just be able to walk into the emperor’s court, no matter what he thinks. We have time before he contacts anyone about Ciri.”

“How do you know?” Calanthe’s voices wavers.

“Because I know Stregobor, and I know he’s only going to hand Ciri over when it gives him the maximum benefit. And that means, he’s going to want to present her directly to the emperor himself, no middle man.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier groans.

“It’s actually a good thing.” Triss rubs a comforting hand over his shoulder.

Tissaia nods. “The emperor doesn’t like Stregobor. No one at court does. The emperor’s mage, Fringilla, especially loathes Stregobor and will do anything to delay his audience with the emperor. That will give us time.”

“So what do we do?” Jaskier asks.

“He’ll have taken her to his tower in Blaviken,” Yennefer says.

Triss’s lip curls into an uncharacteristic expression of disgust. “I hate that place.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Everyone who’s not Stregobor hates that place. He’ll have students defending it. He always has at least a few apprentices at a time. He still thinks he’s going to resurrect the Brotherhood one of these days. There are also booby traps if we try to take it by force. We’ll need to be smart.”

“We have four sorceresses, a Witcher, and well, me and Calanthe,” Jaskier says.

“You’re not coming,” Geralt says.

“Yeah, no,” Jaskier says. “Absolutely not. We’re not doing this again.”

Geralt glowers at him. “This is going to be a battle. You have no place in a battle.”

“I have my knives! I just stabbed and killed a doppler that had your super strength.”

“You won’t get close enough to a sorcerer to stab them before they knock you dead with a spell.”

“Geralt is right,” Yennefer says. “And you have no idea how much it pains me to say that, Jaskier. This isn’t the place for you. You might get hurt, and then Geralt will spend the next century brooding and it will be insufferable.”

The look Geralt gives her could freeze lava, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“What about Calanthe?” Jaskier asks, realizing even as he says it that he sounds like a petulant eight year old. “She’s human too.”

Geralt looks at Calanthe, an eyebrow raised.

“I can shoot a gun,” she says. “Very well. I was the best shooter United Continent had for about a decade.”

“Wait, what?” Jaskier blinks at the mention of the rebel group that terrorized the Nilfgaardian government thirty years ago. He remembers when he thought that Calanthe was just a normal, if a bit prickly, corporate lawyer who lived next door and decides that he’s going to sit her down and get her life story once this is done.

“Do you still have your gun?” Geralt asks.

“Of course.”

“Then you can come.”

"I shot a gun once," Jaskier reminds him.

"And you missed."

"Strategically!"

“Is there any more coffee?” Sabrina speaks for the first time, looking at Jaskier expectantly.

Jaskier groans and goes to brew another pot.

***

They’re up for the rest of the night strategizing. One of the sorceresses even summons a chalkboard. Jaskier just watches, quickly realizing that his occasional contributions aren’t welcome. Even Calanthe has more battle experience than Jaskier. He makes endless pots of coffee, heats up a few frozen pizzas (to Tissaia and Sabrina’s disdain) and tries not to imagine Ciri scared and alone in the sorcerer’s pervy garden.

It’s a little after dawn when the others are ready to move out. Jaskier sits at the kitchen table and watches them gather their weapons. Calanthe apparently has had a small arsenal stocked under her couch for years. Jaskier thinks of all the times he’s sat and watched TV with a grenade launcher under his butt and gives a little shudder. He’s going to have to get a TV so they can have movie nights at his place from now on.

Geralt comes up to Jaskier, looking just as refreshed after a sleepless night as he would after a full night of sleep. It’s deeply unfair. He’s refused all weapons except for the swords strapped to his back and the various knives hidden on his person. “This is all I need,” Jaskier heard him tell Yennefer when she tried to get him to take the grenade launcher.

“I guess I can’t convince you to take me with you.” Jaskier can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“It would be too dangerous.”

“Yes, I’ve never seen danger before.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt sighs. “I need to be focused on saving Ciri. If you came with us, my focus would be divided. I’d be too worried about keeping you safe.”

The intensity of his gaze makes Jaskier’s mouth go dry. “Makes sense.”

Geralt reaches for him, visibly hesitates, then places an awkward hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “We will bring her back. And after she’s safe, you and I can have that talk.”

Gods, this man is an idiot. “Be careful.”

“Of course.” Geralt gives Jaskier’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and then he turns away.

On the other side of the table, Yennefer and Triss seem to be having a similar conversation. “Someone needs to stay with the human, Triss,” Yennefer says. “And you’re the best of us with children.”

Jaskier swallows back his offended gasp, knowing it will just amuse her.

“We’ll need a healer when this is all done,” Yennefer continues. “You shouldn’t waste your power in a fight.”

“If you don’t want me in the way, Yenn, all you have to do is say so.” Triss’s voice is light and teasing.

“Of course not. I remember Sodden Hill. You can hold your own. But we both know you’re better with life than death.”

Something silent, but affectionate, seems to pass between the two sorceresses and Jaskier leans forward, intrigued. Yennefer catches him looking and bares her teeth at him, so he decides to become very busy cleaning up the collection of empty coffee mugs all over the living room.

Geralt, Calanthe, Yennefer, Tissaia, and Sabrina are going to drive the four hours to Blaviken in Roach. Portaling takes too much power, especially with passengers, and Yennefer insists that Stregobor is less likely to sense them coming in a car than a portal. Jaskier hates to think about what could happen to Ciri in the next four hours, but doesn’t argue with their plan. Feeling numb, he watches the five of them leave.

He’s not sure what else to do, so he showers. He makes more coffee. He tries to eat some cereal, but he can only get a few bites down. He wraps the doppler corpse in an old bed sheet and tries to get some of its blood off the carpet, but it may as well bleed permanent marker. He gives up and does some research on professional carpet cleaning. In the back of his mind, there’s the screaming terror that everyone he cares about could be getting slaughtered right now, but he tries his damndest to ignore it.

“Here, let me,” Triss says when she finds him scrubbing at the stain on his carpet for the third time that morning.

“I got it, save your powers,” he protests, but she leans down and presses a hand against the bloodstain, making it vanish in an instant. A moment later, the doppler’s body gets the same treatment.

“If I ever turn to a life of crime, I’ll know who to call,” Jaskier quips.

Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles. “Don’t press your luck.”

Seeing the barely suppressed tension in her features, Jaskier suddenly feels guilty. While he’s been preoccupied with his own worry, he totally forgot that she also has plenty to lose today. “Want some waffles?” he asks. “We still have two hours until they even get to Blaviken. We need to do something to pass the time.”

“Waffles sound like a great way to pass the time,” Triss says.

Jaskier grins and straightens up. “I’m pretty sure I have some chocolate chips in my pantry, if you want to make them really fancy. And maybe some—” He breaks off as he steps through his bedroom door and a clammy hand presses to the back of his neck. It’s like being hit with a stun gun. Jaskier’s limbs jerk and he goes limp, slumping to the ground. His head ricochets off his door jamb and pain shoots through his skull. He falls face-first on the carpet.

“Jaskier!” Triss screams and there’s the sounds of a struggle. A male voice cries out hoarsely and a moment later, Triss yelps. Slowly, painfully, Jaskier raises his head. Triss lies crumpled on the floor next to him. For a horrible second, he thinks she’s dead, but then he sees the rise and fall of her chest. A young man, probably college-aged, is slumped against the wall. He’s obviously dead; half his face is caved in.

Their surviving attacker, a kid who can’t be much older than Ciri, circles around them and goes to kick Triss in the head. Jaskier reaches out to grab his ankle. “You came here for a reason,” he growls. It hurts to speak, hurts to think. “You don’t need to beat up unconscious women to do it.”

The kid’s lip curls and he brings his foot down on Jaskier’s face. Everything goes dark.

***

They are less than an hour from Blaviken and if Geralt could get headaches, he would probably have one.

“I know that this car goes faster than this.” From the backseat, Yennefer leans over his shoulder to look at the speedometer.

“I am following traffic laws,” Geralt says as a car drives onto the shoulder to pass him. “No one will be alive to save Ciri if we crash.”

“Is this car too old to have airbags?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never checked.”

He’s sure Yennefer is going to reply--she always does--but there’s a chime of her cell phone ringing. There’s a pause, then Geralt hears Yennefer ask, “Are you alright?” Her voice is suddenly urgent.

Geralt looks in the rearview mirror and sees that the sorceress’s face has gone ashen. “No,” Yennefer says. “You’re injured. Stay there and rest. We’ll handle this.”

Geralt’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. There are only a handful of people whose injuries would put that concerned look on Yennefer’s face, and most of them are in this car. All that’s left is Triss.

“You did everything you could,” Yennefer says, voice gentling. “It will be okay. I’ll let you know as soon as we get to them.”

 _Them._ All of Geralt’s worst fears are confirmed as soon as she says that word. Still, as soon as Yennefer hangs up, he demands, “What happened?”

“Stregobor sent two apprentices to the apartment. They took Jaskier.”

Geralt is not the type to panic. A panicked Witcher is a dead Witcher. But the quickening of his heartbeat is the closest he’s felt in decades.

“Triss?” Sabrina asks.

“She’s fine, just pissed off. They knocked her unconscious and tied her up, but she got loose.” Yennefer shakes her head. “Now will you drive faster, Geralt?”

Geralt presses down on the accelerator and Roach’s engine roars.

***

When Jaskier wakes up, he’s tied to a chair. This isn’t entirely surprising. His blurry vision starts to clear (judging from the pounding in his head, he’s definitely concussed) and he slowly looks around, taking in his prison. He expects a dingy, poorly-lit dungeon with rats scurrying in the corners. Instead, he’s sitting in the middle of a lush garden, overflowing with flowers, koi ponds, and naked women.

He’s heard about Stregobor’s garden from Geralt and the sorceresses, but even that didn’t prepare him for the sheer volume of nudity all over the place. Normally, this would be the opposite of a problem for Jaskier, if not for the illusions’ empty, servile smiles. One looks suspiciously like Yennefer, if Yennefer ever wore such a soppy expression on her face. Jaskier’s bound hands clench into fists. He doesn’t like her, but the thought of Stregobor getting his jollies off to her likeness makes him want to beat the sorcerer’s face in.

“Haven’t you ever heard of porn?” he asks.

Nearby, he hears Stregobor chuckle. “I know it’s a bit old-fashioned, but my girls have been with me for centuries. I can’t bear to part with them.”

Jaskier looks around to see the sorcerer brushing his hand along the cheek of a petite brunette. The illusion hardly looks older than Ciri. “The plants used to be illusions too,” Stregobor continues. “But they’re all real now. Tending to them gives me something to do. Aren’t the cherry blossoms lovely this time of year?”

Jaskier doesn’t grace that with an answer. He notices a large, black dog with a mouth full of razor-like teeth and burning red eyes stalking among the cherry blossoms. A second, identical dog follows it. “What about the dogs?”

“Barghests. They make fine guard dogs.”

Geralt once told Jaskier all about barghests. Jaskier remembers Geralt’s relief when the monster they turned out to be hunting was a werewolf instead. “Geralt told me that it’s dangerous to summon barghests. They usually turn on their masters.”

“Not if they’re controlled correctly. These will only attack if ordered.” As if to prove Stregobor’s point, a third barghest leaps out of nowhere and snaps its massive jaws in Jaskier’s face. Instinctively, Jaskier yelps and draws back. Its breath smells like blood and sulfur.

“Not yet.” Stregobor’s voice is soft and indulgent, like Calanthe when she catches Mousesack breaking into the catnip. “But soon.”

Jaskier sees more of the dark shapes lurking among the trees, at least a dozen. “Where is Ciri?”

“She’s safe.”

“She’s just a kid. Let her go.”

“She isn’t ‘just’ anything. Cirilla could grow to be the most powerful magic user on the Continent. Of course, only if the emperor allows her to live that long.”

Jaskier tries not to let the panic show on his face. How long was he unconscious? Are Geralt and the others at least close? “You know that they’ll kill her, right? You want a fifteen year old’s execution on your conscience?”

“Not necessarily. There are lots of uses for someone with her powers.”

“So if they don’t execute her, they’ll turn her into an assassin or something. All so what, you get invited to the emperor’s sixth wedding?”

“You cannot possibly understand the delicate process of gaining power as a sorcerer on Nilfgaard’s Continent while remaining a free agent.”

“I understand that you were a power-hungry asshole centuries before Nilfgaard came along.”

A blow lands heavily against Jaskier’s face, snapping his head around. It feels exactly like a fist--Jaskier can even feel the knuckles digging into the soft flesh of his cheek--but Stregobor is still standing several yards away from him.

“I understand that the Witcher finds your cheekiness charming.” Jaskier can barely hear Stregobor’s voice over the ringing in his ears. “I am not the Witcher.”

“You don’t say.” Jaskier tastes blood. “So, what’s your plan? I think we’ve established that you’re not going to get anything out of me. Turn my brain to mush if you have to.”

“I want nothing from you, Jaskier. You’re just a musician. You’re useless to me. You’re just here to provide some leverage.”

Jaskier does not like the sound of that. “If Geralt has to choose between me and Ciri, he’ll choose Ciri. He’ll tear this tower down if that’s what it takes to save her.”

“I think your presence here will make him much less willing to tear this tower down.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Uselessly, Jaskier tugs at the ropes binding his wrists to the arms of the chair. “Listen, how about this? You let Ciri and me go, I’ll put in a good word with Geralt. I’ll convince him to kill you quickly.”

He feels another blow, this one to his stomach. It knocks all the air out of his lungs. Wheezing, he adds, “As soon as Geralt gets here, you’re fucked and you know it. Why else would you bother taking a hostage?”

Another blow.

“Is this your big, evil plan?” Jaskier demands. “Torture me? For what?”

“This isn’t torture,” Stregobor says. “Torture is a method for lesser men. No, this is motivation.”

“For what? I’m very motivated to get the fuck out of here, trust me.”

“For her.” Stregobor nods to a place behind Jaskier.

“Jaskier!”

At the sound of Ciri’s cry, Jaskier twists around in his seat and sees her behind dragged towards him by two young men, one of them the little shit who kidnapped Jaskier from Posada. She’s struggling against the boys’ hold, her horrified eyes locked on Jaskier. She looks pale and shaken, but unharmed, and the tight knot of dread in Jaskier’s stomach loosens a bit at the sight of her.

“What is he doing here?” she shouts at Stregobor. “He’s just my next door neighbor. I barely know him, he just drives me to school twice a week. Let him go!”

Ciri is many things, but a good liar isn’t one of them. The naked terror on her face when she looks at Jaskier gives everything away. He tries to look calm and reassuring, but as Stregobor circles behind him and places his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, Jaskier can feel his heart begin to hammer frantically in his chest. He knows what comes next. Stregobor might prefer to call it motivation instead of torture, but the end result is still going to be Stregobor using Jaskier’s pain to get Ciri to do what he wants.

“I hope your night is the cell put some things in perspective for you, Cirilla,” Stregobor says.

Ciri makes an anatomically improbable suggestion that would make Calanthe proud. Jaskier starts to smile, but then agony jolts through him. It’s like someone is pressing hot pokers all over his body. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe through the pain, knowing that screaming and writhing is exactly what the sorcerer wants, but he can’t stop a whimper from escaping his throat.

“Stop!” Ciri shouts.

“Happily, my dear. I have no taste for this. I just need you to scream. I need to know for certain what you can do.”

“You really don’t want that,” Jaskier manages to groan, remembering the assassin’s broken body.

Stregobor ignores him. “Never fear, I’ll make sure to protect myself, my men, and Jaskier from the effects. I just want to see a demonstration of your power.”

“I already told you,” Ciri says. “I don’t have any power.”

Jaskier is ready for the next wave of pain. It feels like his fingernails are being pried off. When it passes, he looks down and sees that his hands are unmarked. No blood, no bruising, nothing but the throbbing of phantom pain. A moment later, he groans at the sensation of his fingers being broken. Knowing that it’s an illusion, that the injuries aren’t real, doesn’t take away from the agony coursing through him.

_”Jaskier.”_

Yennefer’s voice sounds in his head just as Jaskier feels his thumb break. He’s not sure which one makes him yelp. It sounds like Yennefer is standing behind him, whispering in his ear, but the only person behind him is Stregobor.

 _”There’s no time for you to panic,”_ Yennefer continues. _”We’re close. I need you to tell me everything that’s happening.”_

Jaskier grits his teeth against the pain shooting through his hand. _“Stregobor is trying to get Ciri to scream right now.”_

_“That can’t happen.”_

_“Yeah, we got that.”_

_“Is he torturing you?”_

_“He’s not actually hurting me. Just making me feel like he is.”_

_“Typical.”_ The thought drips with disdain. Jaskier has a feeling Yennefer would respect Stregobor more if the sorcerer were actually taking pliers to Jaskier’s teeth. _“I need you to tell me exactly where you are, where Ciri is, and who else is there. Tell me everything you see.”_

It’s hard for Jaskier to think, but he forces himself to look up at the vaulted ceiling of the garden. _“I think we’re on the top floor of his tower, in the garden. Stregobor and two of his apprentices are here. His apprentices have Ciri.”_

_“Where are you in relation to the door?”_

_“I don’t have a fucking tape measurer on me, Yennefer.”_

_“Give me an estimate. Or would you like me to accidentally blow you up?”_

Jaskier almost smiles, but another phantom blow to his face distracts him. _“Maybe fifteen or twenty feet away.”_

“I could do this all day,” Stregobor says. “But he can’t. Human hearts are fragile. His will give out eventually. Scream, Cirilla, or I’m going to end this.”

The barghests circle Jaskier and Stregobor. Jaskier can’t stop the shudder from running through him.

 _“Did I mention the barghests?”_ he asks Yennefer. _"At least a dozen barghests."_

_“Oh, that reckless imbecile.”_

“Geralt will kill you if you hurt him.” Ciri’s voice trembles.

“You two have so much faith in the Butcher. It’s unfounded. I am going to let my barghests have him, unless you do as I ask.”

“Ciri, don’t.” Jaskier tries to reassure her with his eyes, silently tell her, _”They’re coming, just hold on, they’re coming, we’ll be okay.”_ He hopes that the terror isn’t apparent on his face.

 _“Yennefer, tell Geralt—”_ he starts to think, but she cuts him off.

_“Oh no, absolutely not, I’m not delivering any deathbed confessions of love. You’ll tell Geralt yourself in just a couple of minutes.”_

The barghest nearest Jaskier growls and snaps its teeth. Jaskier flinches. _“I think I’m about to die.”_

 _“Five minutes, Jaskier. Do whatever it takes to stay alive for five minutes. I promise, we’re coming.”_ He thinks she might be scared, but that might be him projecting his own terror.

“Leave him alone!” Ciri pulls against the boys holding her. With visible effort, they keep her back.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier tries to tell her, but his voice doesn’t seem to be working. He’s had so many near-death experiences in the last six months, he would think he’d stop finding them terrifying. But every fiber of his being tells him that he’s about to die and it’s going to be fucking Stregobor of all people who kills him. He would have preferred the cockatrice, or even the graveir.

“I suppose you’ve made your choice,” Stregobor says. “Goodbye, Jaskier.”

“Wait!” Jaskier says as the barghests draw closer. “Wait, please, I’ll tell you what you need to know. Please.”

Stregobor chuckles. “I’m glad to see one of you has some sense of self-preservation.”

Jaskier closes his eyes so Ciri won’t see the fear in them. “Here’s what you need to know, you fucking asshole. It’s painfully obvious that you’ve never seen a flesh and blood woman naked, or you’d know that tits don’t move like that when they walk. If you’re going to be the pathetic old man who lives in a tower with a bunch of naked girls, try to be somewhat realistic about it.”

“You little—”

“I can see why all your apprentices are fifteen year old boys. I bet real men grow up, realize that this isn’t conducive to their love lives, and get the hell out of here. Or is it that once they’ve finished puberty, they realize you’re full of bullshit and they move on to work for real sorcerers? Is that why you hate Geralt? Because he’s a Witcher, but he still manages to have the respect of four sorceresses, which is four more than have ever respected you?”

“Those little girls at Aretuza—”

“You turned tail and ran as soon as you saw Yennefer at Aretuza for a reason. You can call them ‘little girls’ all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re terrified of them. You needed me as a hostage because you knew you couldn’t handle Ciri on your own, so I’d love to see you take on Yennefer. You’ll be dead before you finish pissing yourself.”

Jaskier forces himself to open his eyes and finds himself staring into Stregobor’s red, furious face. “If this is your strategy for begging for your life, it needs some work,” the sorcerer says.

“I wouldn’t beg you for shit.”

Stregobor’s reply is cut off by a thunderous crash from downstairs. The floor under Jaskier’s feet vibrates and he bares his teeth into a grin.

“And that sound means your day is about to get a lot worse.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II should be posted this weekend. And THEN you'll get your short, maybe-fluffy-but-maybe-not epilogue.
> 
> Thank you again for your patience!


	11. Of Barghests and Battles Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the proverbial fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the second part! Thank you for your patience, everyone!

Stregobor has more apprentices than Yennefer was anticipating, at least a dozen. They’re all so young, still gawky and pimply. Yennefer feels the smallest twinge of pity when the first one comes at her, flames blazing in his palms, and Geralt cuts him down. These boys are old enough to know that they’re abetting a kidnapping. They know what they’re doing and they’ll kill her if she gives them half a chance. Ciri is in that tower (and Jaskier, though Yennefer isn’t ready to admit to herself that she cares about what happens to the annoying musician.) Yennefer will do what she has to do to get inside.

Around her, the others leap into battle: Tissaia with her spells, Sabrina with her bow and arrows, Calanthe with her gun, and Geralt with his sword. They’re barely inside the tower and already there’s blood and bodies everywhere. Yennefer takes on two of the apprentices at a time, surprised by how gifted they are for being so young. Stregobor may be the scum of the Continent, but he’s a good teacher. She should have known that after all the time she spent with Istredd.

She reaches out to Jaskier with her mind and is relieved to find him still there. For a moment, she thought she was going to have to listen helplessly while he was torn apart by barghests. _“Jaskier?”_

_“Still alive, but I’ve stalled as long as I can. Whatever you’re doing down there, can you do it faster? The barghests look hungry.”_

One of the apprentices lunges for her and a sword whistles out of nowhere, burying itself in his back. Yennefer yanks the sword out of the corpse and glares in annoyance at Geralt. “I had that.”

“I’m just hurrying things along.” Geralt reaches his hand out to catch the sword as she tosses it back to him. The Witcher is standing at the bottom of the stairs and looking at her questioningly. She knows that if she tells him they need him, he’ll stay and fight with them. He’s honorable like that. But she also knows that his heart is already upstairs, wherever Jaskier and Ciri are. She hasn’t told him how close Jaskier came to dying only moments before; they need him focused if they’re going to get through this.

 _“Oh gods.”_ Jaskier’s thoughts are filled with dread. _“I think I did too good of a job pissing him off.”_

_“You weren’t supposed to piss him off. You were supposed to beg for your life or cry or something.”_

_“I preferred the pissing him off plan.”_

An arrow pierces the eye socket of the other apprentice Yennefer is fighting and he crumples to the ground. “We have this!” Sabrina calls. “You two, go!”

Geralt and Yennefer exchange looks, nod, and turn to sprint up the steps.

 _“Hold on,”_ Yennefer tells Jaskier. _“Just a little longer. Hold on.”_

***

Yennefer’s lips move slightly as she and Geralt run up the winding stairs of the tower. Geralt isn’t sure if she’s casting spells or speaking to Jaskier.

“Stregobor has them surrounded by barghests,” she tells Geralt.

Geralt curses under his breath. “Stregobor is a fucking fool.”

He saw how white Yennefer’s face went in the car when she was communicating with Jaskier and he knows there are things she isn’t telling him.

“Are they alright?” he asks.

“Yes. You know I would tell you if they weren’t.”

“Would you?”

Behind him, he hears Yennefer sigh. “There was a tense moment, but your musician managed to talk his way out of being eaten alive.”

“He’s good at that.”

“I’m fairly certain that he just made Stregobor so angry that Stregobor is trying to figure out a worse end for him than being eaten by barghests.”

“He’s also good at that.”

“Watch out!” Yennefer’s hand shoots past him, blocking the explosion from the protection spell Stregobor had on the stairs. “Geralt, you should let me go first.”

“I have the swords, Yenn. If there are barghests—”

“I will happily step aside and let you deal with the barghests when the time comes.” Yennefer slips past him and continues up the stairs. “But there’s going to be more where that spell came from and you’re too frazzled to sense them right now.”

“I am not frazzled.”

“You are and you’re going to be until we get Jaskier back, but that’s okay. That’s what I’m here for. I have enough brains for the both of us for the time being.”

Geralt is glad she’s turned away from him so she doesn’t see him smile.

They encounter three more spells on their way up the steps. Geralt doesn’t sense any of them, but he doesn’t say a word and Yennefer doesn’t bring him up. They pause in front of the double doors at the top of the steps.

“Are you ready?” Yennefer asks him.

Geralt draws his swords in answer. From inside the room, he can hear Jaskier’s voice, and then Ciri’s. They sound frightened. If either of them are hurt, Geralt is going to break Stregobor apart piece by piece.

“I’ll deal with Stregobor, you deal with the barghests,” Yennefer says.

“Stregobor is my kill.”

“Of course,” she says. “For Renfri. I’ll save the killing blow for you.”

Before Geralt can decide if she sounds bitter or not, she raises her hands and the doors fly off their hinges and crash onto the garden floor.

***

Ciri hangs between the two boys holding her prisoner, heart hammering as she listens to the sound of gunshots, crashing, and yelling below. Her hands curl into useless fists. All she can do is hope that none of those screams belong to Gran, Geralt, or the sorceresses. The barghests fan out, placing themselves in front of the doors.

“So that’s what that little performance was for.” Stregobor’s voice is low and dangerous. “A distraction?”

Jaskier’s Adam’s apple bobs. He’s trying not to look scared, but Ciri can see the barely contained panic in his eyes. “It worked.”

Stregobor grabs a fistful of Jaskier’s hair and jerks his head back. “I could have one of my barghests rip your throat out right now.”

“Don’t!” Ciri can feel the scream rising in her throat. She wants to let it out so bad. But she knows that if she screams, it will be like the night her parents died. She won’t be able to stop. She’ll scream and scream until this tower falls down and everyone inside, including Jaskier and her would-be rescuers, are dead. She’s too scared and angry to hold onto the minimal amount of control she’s learned.

Stregobor’s lips twist. “What is it about you, Jaskier, that all these powerful people are so desperate to keep you alive?”

“It’s called having friends and not hanging out in a tower surrounded by imaginary ladies all day. You know, if porn isn’t your cup of tea, there’s always online dating.” Jaskier’s last word ends in a gasp and Ciri knows that the sorcerer is hurting him again.

“Stop it,” she tells Stregobor.

“That’s up to you, princess. Just do what I say and his pain will end.”

Jaskier shakes his head at her, like he seriously thinks she’s stupid enough to do what Stregobor says.

“I’m going to kill you.” She doesn’t recognize her own voice. It’s low and cold and sounds almost Geralt-like. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to destroy you.”

“The last person who told me that got stabbed by the Butcher of Blaviken right outside this very tower,” Stregobor says. “Forgive me if I’m not worried.”

Screaming would feel so good right now. Ciri breathes deeply and remembers how Jaskier’s nose bled when she screamed at his apartment. She doesn’t believe Stregobor when he says he’ll shield Jaskier from the effects. Even if Stregobor does try to protect him, she isn’t sure if the protections would be effective.

“Cirilla, don’t you think you’ve been difficult for long enough?” Stregobor asks.

Before Ciri can answer, the doors come flying off their hinges. Yennefer and Geralt stand in the doorway.

***

The sight of Yennefer and Geralt makes Jaskier sag with relief. Yennefer’s hands are stretched out in front her and Geralt holds his swords at the ready. They look so badass that for a second, Jaskier forgets that he’s probably about to be cursed into oblivion or eaten alive. The barghests rush forwards and Geralt is waiting for them. Jaskier watches, mesmerized, as Geralt slashes and hacks at the creatures. His silver sword dissolves them into wisps of smoke.

Yennefer ignores the barghests entirely as she makes a beeline for Stregobor, the apprentices, and Ciri. The kid who kidnapped Jaskier raises his hand, a curse on his lips. Yennefer twists her hand in the air and snaps his neck. The second apprentice takes one look at his dead comrade and makes the wisest decision of his life--he drops Ciri and flees. Stregobor takes a step towards Ciri, but Yennefer is between them in an instant. As Yennefer and Stregobor circle each other, Ciri dashes to Jaskier.

“Are you alright?” She fumbles with the bindings on his wrists. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have stopped him.”

“I’m fine,” he says soothingly. “You did what you had to do.”

“He tortured you! You almost died!”

“Yeah, and Yennefer’s about to rip him in half. We win.” He sees a blur of shadow and turns his head to see two of the barghests racing towards them. “Ciri, run!”

But of course, Ciri does not run. Instead, she steps in between Jaskier and the barghests, squaring her shoulders like she thinks she can defeat two fanged monsters in hand-to-hand combat. Jaskier’s attempts to free his hands grow frantic. One of the barghests tackles Ciri and pins her to the ground. The second one leaps for Jaskier, a blur of red eyes and teeth. Jaskier only has time for an instant of terror before a sword comes down and dissolves the attacking barghest into smoke. The barghest on top of Ciri turns with a snarl and Geralt cuts through it with one easy motion.

“Geralt,” Jaskier croaks, sagging with relief.

“Are you both okay?” Geralt cuts through the ropes binding Jaskier with ease. It is incredibly tempting to spring into the Witcher’s arms and Jaskier has to remember that this isn’t the time or place. Plus, Geralt would probably throw him out a window.

“Fine.” Shakily, Jaskier climbs to his feet. “It’s really, really good to see you.”

Geralt’s brow furrows. “You’re hurt.”

“Not actually.” Jaskier has to glance down at his hands to remind himself that his fingers aren’t broken and all fingernails are still intact. He can still feel the phantom throb of pain. “Stregobor doesn’t go for actual torture. He prefers psychological warfare.”

Geralt lets out a low growl and turns inky black eyes on Stregobor and Yennefer, who are locked in battle. “Ciri, get him out of here.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one getting her out of here?” Jaskier asks.

“Ciri’s the one who’s bothered learning how to use a sword.” Geralt presses one of his swords into Ciri’s hands. It’s comically large for her small frame, but if the weight is too much for her, she doesn’t show it.

Geralt must see the look on Jaskier’s face and take pity on him, because he sighs and yanks the knife out of his boot. “Here,” he says gruffly, handing it to Jaskier. “Be careful.”

Another barghest lunges for them. Ciri stabs it before Geralt can even lift his sword. Geralt looks so proud that it makes Jaskier’s heart melt a little.

“Come on.” With one last look at Geralt (they’re going to see each other again; they have to see each other again) Jaskier grabs Ciri’s hand and pulls her towards the door.

***

It’s been years since Calanthe was in a proper fight, and the first time she’s gone into battle with sorceresses and a Witcher at her side, but some things never change. The stench of blood, burning flesh, and shit hangs heavy in the air as she puts a bullet into yet another kid’s head. She hates how young they are. She hates that Stregobor has turned children into his soldiers and is sending them to die like so much cannon fodder.

But Ciri is upstairs and Calanthe will do what she has to do to get to her granddaughter.

Calanthe fires her gun at another apprentice. There are so many of them. Yennefer only seemed to expect a handful, but there are at least a dozen bodies on the floor and nearly as many alive and fighting. The apprentice catches the bullet in the air with a spell and sends it back towards Calanthe. Calanthe hits the ground and hears a small cry behind her. She looks around to see Tissaia clutching her stomach, where a red stain spreads across her emerald green dress.

“Tissaia!” Sabrina cries and breaks the apprentice’s neck with a twitch of her fingers, forgetting the bow and arrows. Calanthe isn’t sure why the blonde sorceress prefers a bow and arrows over defensive magic, but she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it’s all about the aesthetic.

“I’m fine.” But Tissaia sags against the wall, leaving a bloody handprint on the bricks. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

“Flesh wounds don’t bleed like that.” Calanthe shoots another apprentice in the head.

“A bullet isn’t what’s going to kill me.” The sorceress’s voice is hard. “Sabrina, cover Calanthe.”

Sabrina eyes Tissaia warily. “I thought we were trying to preserve our powers as much as possible here.”

“One of these little shits just shot me. I’m done holding back. Cover Calanthe.”

Calanthe is about to ask what the hell she needs to be covered from when the room fills with magic. She can’t see it, but she feels it prickling the hairs on her arms and pressing down on her temples. It’s almost like Ciri’s scream when she loses control. Sabrina is standing between her and Tissaia, arms spread out to block her from the effects. Calanthe watches as, one by one, the young sorcerers drop dead around her. When the last one has stopped twitching, the magic in the air dies away and Tissaia collapses.

“That is how things are done at Aretuza.” The sorceress looks exhausted, the most disheveled Calanthe has ever seen her, but she smiles before slumping over, unconscious.

Sabrina kneels down beside her. “She’s completely drained herself. She probably couldn’t even levitate a rock right now. Damn it, Yennefer is going to kill me.”

“I don’t think even Yennefer expects you to control Tissaia.” It would be amusing to watch Sabrina try, though Calanthe doesn’t tell her that. “Get her outside and do what you have to do to stop the bleeding.”

“What about you? You can’t go up there alone.”

“I’m not alone.” Calanthe pats her gun fondly. “That asshole has my granddaughter. I’m not walking away now.”

***

The more barghests they kill, the more seem to materialize out of the shadows. Jaskier isn’t sure if Stregobor is actively summoning more or if they were already summoned and the sorcerer is just bringing them out in waves. Either way, he and Ciri are only halfway to the door and even though it’s only a few yards away, the exit may as well be on the other side of the Continent. Behind them, Jaskier can hear Geralt’s grunts as he fights more barghests and the furious sizzle of magic as Stregobor and Yennefer battle.

He looks over his shoulder to see Geralt sinking his sword in between a barghest’s shoulder blades. The barghest yelps and retreats, but doesn’t dissolve into smoke.

“Oh, fuck.” Jaskier skids to a stop.

Ciri tugs at his hand. “What’s wrong? Come on!”

“Geralt gave us his silver weapons. All he has left is steel. That’s not going to kill the barghests.” The barghest that Geralt just stabbed is already lunging for the Witcher again.

“Why doesn’t he cut their heads off?” Ciri asks. “Steel or no, that will kill him.”

“They’ll just reform. That’s what barghests do. Gods damn it.” Jaskier can’t leave Geralt. He also can’t abandon Ciri.

A barghest latches onto Geralt’s upper arm while he drives the hilt of his sword between another’s eyes and the decision is made for Jaskier. Ciri at least has a silver sword to protect herself with. Jaskier runs to the Witcher’s side and stabs the barghest clinging onto Geralt. It vanishes into smoke, leaving nothing but a bloody wound on the Witcher’s bicep.

“I thought I told you to run,” Geralt growls.

“I was running. And then I realized that, like an idiot, you’d given away all your silver weapons. What were you planning, to growl the barghests to death?”

The Witcher scowls at him. “I impale the barghests with steel, you stab them with silver to finish them off. Understood?”

“Or you could just take the knife back and give me the sword.”

“I might as well cut your hand off myself. Save you the embarrassment.”

“That is uncalled for.”

Geralt drives his sword into a lunging barghest’s chest and nods at Jaskier. Jaskier stabs the writhing monster in the side of its neck with the silver knife and it dissolves into smoke. Two more of the creatures meet the same fate.

“Hey, this is kind of fun,” Jaskier says. “Maybe you shouldn’t make me stay in the car all the time.”

“This isn’t the time, Jaskier.” Geralt shoves Jaskier out of the way of a lunging barghest.

“What? We make a good—” Jaskier is cut off by another barghest slamming into him, knocking him to the ground. The knife falls of his hands and he’s pinned to the ground, his face filled with fur. He’s starting to wonder if he’s going to be eaten alive or suffocated when there’s a guttural growl and the barghest is yanked off of him. Geralt hurls the monster away from Jaskier and it lands on the ground with a yelp.

Geralt drags Jaskier to his feet. “Where’s the knife?”

“I don’t know! It got knocked out of my hand and—oh shit.” Jaskier sees the silver blade on the ground several feet away, with three barghests between him and it. There’s a circle of barghests forming around him and Geralt.

Geralt hoists his sword.

“That’s not going to kill them,” Jaskier says, proud of how un-panicked he sounds.

“No, it isn’t. I might be able to buy you enough time to get to the silver knife.”

“You don’t sound certain.”

“I’m not.”

Jaskier lets out a hysterical little laugh as the barghests press closer. “Come on, after everything, the evil Witcher and the wyvern and the bruxa, it’s not going to be a pack of ugly dogs that kills us, right?”

He looks around for some way out. Ciri is nearby, fighting off her own pack of barghests. Calanthe has joined her and is shooting the barghests to slow them down long enough for Ciri to stab them. Yennefer is still embroiled in her fight with Stregobor. She’s bleeding from a cut on her face, but shows no sign of slowing down.

Geralt pushes Jaskier behind him. There are barghests behind them--there are barghests on all sides of them--but Jaskier doesn’t point that out. Geralt’s hand lingers on Jaskier’s side, holding him close, and Jaskier feels a rush of warmth for this impossible, stubborn man. His chest is pressed to Geralt’s back and he allows himself a moment of regret, because this would be really hot if they weren’t about to die horribly.

And then around them, the gardens explode into motion. Vines and tree branches stretch outwards, wrapping around the barghests and lifting them into the air. The creatures writhe and snap, but the branches cocoon them until all that can be seen of them are dark, wiggling masses in the trees. Jaskier looks around, open-mouthed, to see Triss stepping out of the garden, her hands outstretched.

She smiles sheepishly. “I know Yenn told me to stay home, but I couldn’t let the rest of you have all the fun.”

“Feel free to never listen to Yennefer,” Jaskier says, heart still pounding too fast. He sags bonelessly against Geralt, who doesn’t move to brush him off.

Triss’s eyes narrow when she sees Yennefer locked in battle with Stregobor and she starts to stride towards them. Jaskier notices she still has a wound on the side of her head from where she was knocked unconscious by the apprentices, but she doesn’t seem to notice it. He watches Stregobor notice her presence and the sudden absence of all the barghests. The sorcerer looks around the room, taking in the two angry sorceresses, the sword-wielding Witcher, and the furious grandmother with a gun, and a look of resignation settles over his face.

“Yenn, grab him!” Geralt shouts, but it’s too late. A portal opens up directly behind Stregobor and he steps through it and vanishes.

“Damn it,” Calanthe says, breathing heavily. “We need to find him before he gets a chance to scurry off to the emperor and tell him about Ciri.”

Ciri leans against her grandmother, looking exhausted. She hasn’t let go of the silver sword clutched in her white-knuckled hands.

“Where are Tissaia and Sabrina?” Yennefer asks, brushing off Triss’s concerned hands. “Yes, I’m fine, Triss. Yes, I’m bleeding, but so are you. It’s fine.”

“Tissaia got shot and drained her powers killing the small army of apprentices,” Calanthe says. “Sabrina is tending to her outside.”

Jaskier looks around at the overgrown garden, the wiggling barghests in the trees, and the still-serene illusionary women. “What now?”

“We’re going to need to track him.” Yennefer catches sight of the illusion that looks like her, snarls, and banishes it with a wave of her hand. “And then I say we burn this piece of shit tower to the—”

Triss screams and sinks to the ground.

“What happened?” Jaskier demands, just as one of the trees closest to them bursts into flames. Geralt grabs Jaskier and pulls him away. As Jaskier watches in horror, more of the garden starts to burn.

“I don’t know.” Yennefer shakes her head, cradling Triss’s head in her lap. “Somehow, Stregobor is attacking Triss’s life force through the spell she cast on the garden. He’s still here.”

Jaskier watches as one of the illusions picks flowers and smiles serenely while she’s engulfed in fire. “What can we do?”

“Find the bastard and kill him,” Yennefer growls. “Preferably slowly and excruciatingly.”

Triss has stopped screaming. Somehow, the way she twitches and spasms is worse. Jaskier is about to turn to Geralt and ask what the plan is when he’s hit with a wall of magic. He’s thrown to the ground with enough force to rattle his teeth. Next to him, Geralt falls with a grunt. Jaskier tries to stand up, but there’s a sudden terrible pressure on his chest and he sinks back to the floor with a hiss of pain.

“Jaskier.” Geralt sounds breathless. “You should run.”

“I would love to,” Jaskier manages to wheeze. “But I can’t stand up right now.”

Stregobor walks out of the garden, his gaze focused on Ciri. Calanthe starts towards him, but he bats her to the ground with a wave of his hand. “Come with me, Cirilla, and everyone here lives.”

***

For a few minutes, Ciri thought it was over. Stregobor was gone, Triss had swooped in and taken out the barghests, and they were all alive. Now, Triss is unconscious and Yennefer, Jaskier, Geralt, and Gran are held down by some kind of spell, unable to move. Ciri stands in the middle of the garden, surrounded by burning trees and howling barghests, and points her sword at Stregobor. If her hands are shaking, she tells herself that she’s just tired, not scared. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

The sorcerer smiles. “Was my persuasion earlier not enough?”

On the ground, Jaskier gasps and Ciri looks down to see him writhing and clutching at his legs. Geralt tries to drag himself towards Jaskier, but he can’t move. For the first time since Ciri has known him, the Witcher looks utterly helpless as he watches Jaskier struggle. It makes Ciri want to cry.

“Would using someone else provide better motivation?” Stregobor asks, slowly advancing towards Ciri. “Your grandmother? The Witcher? Or perhaps I should just throw the musician into the fire.”

Jaskier groans as he’s lifted several inches off the floor. Ciri can feel the heat of the fire on her face. It’s not producing any smoke. There won’t be the mercy of death by smoke inhalation. If Stregobor throws Jaskier into the flames, he’ll burn alive. She tightens her grip on the sword, even though she knows it’s useless. By the time she gets close enough to Stregobor to stab him, Jaskier will be dead.

“Why are you doing this?” She hates how small and uncertain she sounds.

“It isn’t personal, Cirilla,” the sorcerer says. “I am merely doing what I need to do to survive, just like all of us.”

Ciri looks down at Jaskier, whose face is a mask of agony. Geralt, who watches Jaskier with a look of helpless horror on his face. Calanthe, who can’t take her eyes off of Ciri. Yennefer, who is lying on top of Triss, as if she can protect her fellow sorceress from any more pain. Ciri’s eyes meet Yennefer’s and the sorceress gives her a small, imperceptible nod.

Ciri drops the sword, looks Stregobor right in his smug face, and lets the rage and helplessness and hatred out.

She screams.

***

At the sound of Ciri’s scream, Jaskier is thrown to the ground and slides across the smooth stone floor. For a terrifying instant, he thinks the scream is going to send him straight into the flames, but a hand grabs him by the wrist and yanks him back. Jaskier finds himself tucked under Geralt while Geralt has his other arm wrapped around the trunk of a tree. The Witcher smells like leather and chamomile and Jaskier decides that if he’s about to die, at least being underneath Geralt is a pretty nice way to go.

He looks around with watering eyes. Ciri is on her knees, head thrown back as she wails. There’s an unnerving emptiness to her face. Stregobor cowers on the ground in front of her, hands raised to ward off the effects of her scream. Calanthe, Yennefer, and Triss are flat on the ground, none of them moving. With horror, Jaskier watches as a chunk of bricks falls from the ceiling. A sign from Geralt is the only thing that stops them from falling directly on top of Ciri.

“Ciri!” he shouts, but his voice is lost in the din.

“Ciri’s not there right now,” Geralt says.

Ciri keeps screaming and the pain in Jaskier’s head grows worse. He can feel his nose bleeding and he wonders if his head will actually explode if Ciri screams long enough. As he watches, torn between awe and horror, Ciri begins to levitate in the air. Jaskier tries to call her name again, but she doesn’t react. The stained glass windows shatter, raining bits of colorful glass down around them.

“She’s going to bring the whole tower down,” Jaskier says. “How do we stop her?”

Yennefer raises her head. Her nose is bleeding and she looks dazed, but she looks directly at Geralt. Something seems to pass between them.

“Stay here and hold on.” Geralt hoists Jaskier up so he can wrap his arms around the tree trunk.

“What are you going to do?”

Without answering, Geralt starts to crawl towards Ciri, just as Yennefer does. His progress is slow and painful. Jaskier holds onto the tree trunk for dear life, very aware of the flames behind him, even as he wants nothing more than to clasp his hands over his ears to block out the noise. His thoughts are beginning to become fuzzy and he has to fight to remain conscious. He knows that if he passes out, he’s not waking up.

Geralt casts Aard just as Yennefer casts a spell. Ciri falls, still screaming, and Geralt lunges forward to catch her. Yennefer presses her hand against Ciri’s neck and the scream abruptly cuts off as the girl falls unconscious. Ciri hangs limp in Geralt’s arms as Yennefer strokes her long blond hair out of her face with surprising tenderness. Behind them, Stregobor rises to his feet. The sorcerer is looking at Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri with murder in his eyes.

“Geralt!” Jaskier yells, but the Witcher is already on his feet, still holding Ciri against him. The Witcher grabs the silver sword that Ciri discarded and drives it up under Stregobor’s ribs, directly into his heart. Stregobor’s eyes bulge. Jaskier watches Geralt whisper something into the dying man’s ear, then yank the sword out. Stregobor crumples to the ground. His eyes gaze blankly up at the ceiling and his mouth hangs open. In death, he looks small and pitiful.

There’s a moment of ringing silence as they all stare at Stregobor’s corpse. Calanthe pulls herself to her feet shakily and behind Yennefer, Triss begins to stir. Jaskier can still feel Ciri’s scream in his skull, but he still drags himself up and stumbles towards the others.

“Is everyone okay?” he asks, just as another portion of the roof collapses. Yennefer throws her hands up, just stopping them from becoming a half dozen pancakes.

“We need to get out of here,” Yennefer says. Behind her, a portal opens up. “Come on, everyone get in!”

The floor lurches under Jaskier and he feels like he might be sick.

“Come on!” Yennefer yells again.

Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hand, still holding Ciri in his other arm, and pulls him through the portal. They find themselves on a normal street with normal businesses and a large crowd of people forming around Stregobor’s tower.

“Get away from the tower!” Geralt shouts at them. “It’s coming down!”

Jaskier isn’t sure if he’s just very persuasive, or if people just listen when an enormous man with a sword yells at them, but the group of people migrate across the street en masse. Yennefer and Calanthe come through the portal, holding Triss in between them.

“Yenn! Triss!” Sabrina comes running up to them. Her hands are drenched in blood.

“Tissaia? Yennefer demands.

“She’s fine, just unconscious. The bleeding has stopped. I left her in the car. I’m sorry about your leather seats, Geralt.”

Geralt’s jaw twitches. “Roach has seen worse. Jaskier ate cheese puffs in her once.”

“More than once,” Jaskier says, but the words are lost as Stregobor’s tower comes down, sending a cloud of dust up into the clear blue sky.

***

There’s a certain tragedy in the fact that Jaskier just experienced the most terrifying, momentous, and awe-inspiring twenty-four hours of his life, and he’ll never be able to sing a word about it. There’s no way to sing about the moment that Ciri’s scream knocked him flat to the ground or when Geralt’s sword pierced Stregobor’s chest without advertising the presence of the last Rhiannons to the world or getting Geralt hauled to jail for murder. So Jaskier sits cross-legged on his couch, strumming on his lute.

_”Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of—”_

“Stop.”

Jaskier looks up at Geralt with a grin. The sorceresses have finally returned to Aretuza and Calanthe and Ciri are back in their apartment after a long evening of healing wounds and discussing Ciri’s future protection. It’s just Geralt left. Jaskier isn’t entirely sure why the Witcher is still here, though he supposes that they do need to have that talk.

“It’s the song that started it all,” Jaskier says. “It made me internet famous for about ten minutes and brought you barging into my apartment.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier continues to strum the tune of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher,” though he doesn’t sing along. “I’m glad, even after everything. It’s been the weirdest, scariest few months of my life, but also the best.”

“You got tortured today.”

Jaskier winces and flexes his hand. He’s never going to forget the sensation of his fingernails being torn out, even if it wasn’t real. Just another thing to fuel his nightmares. “That had nothing to do with you.”

“I should have been here.”

“You were off saving Ciri, which is exactly where you should have been.” Reluctantly, Jaskier puts his lute aside and faces the Witcher. Geralt leans against his kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest. Every line of his body speaks of tension.

“Jaskier, I want to tell you that something like that will never happen again,” Geralt says. “That you’ll never be put in danger again.”

“But you can’t, because the entire Continent knows that we’re friends. Don’t give me that look. We’re friends, whether you like it or not. And my next door neighbors are long-lost princesses. I’m starting to think that I may just be a magnet for danger.”

“You’re just starting to think that?”

“I made the decisions that brought me here today,” Jaskier says quietly. “I decided to walk home alone that night we met. I decided to sing about you. I decided to keep singing about you, even after you broke into my apartment and made me drop my noodles. I know you think I’m an idiot—”

“I don’t,” Geralt says. “I know you’re not an idiot.”

Jaskier has to swallow back a lump in his throat. “Then you know that I knew what I was getting into. I’d do it all again, because all of this brought me to you. And that makes it all worth it.”

Geralt’s gaze is locked on his, but the Witcher doesn’t reply.

“This is the part where you say something,” Jaskier says.

“I am sorry for how I behaved before.” Geralt’s voice is slightly less growly than usual. “I wanted to protect you, but I went about it wrong. I’ve gotten used to being alone. Most of the people I once counted as friends are long dead. I feared you would join them and it made me act foolishly.”

It’s better than the doppler’s apology, but Jaskier isn’t about to tell him that. Instead, he stays silent, watching Geralt squirm.

“Despite my best intentions, you have become important to me,” Geralt continues. “I’ve enjoyed having you travel with me. I even enjoy the singing, sometimes. But this isn’t an easy life. It’s dangerous.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“It’s not a life that many people would choose.”

“And yet, here we are.” Jaskier stands up and crosses the room to Geralt. “Geralt, I told you that I knew what I was getting into. Granted, I didn’t expect the homicidal sorcerer, but I definitely expected the monsters. Maybe not the doppler, because that was weird.”

“You could get hurt.”

“I think we’ve established that I’m a magnet for danger. I’m definitely going to get eaten by something large and ugly if left to my own devices.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Look, if you don’t want to be with me, fine. I’m not one to chase someone who doesn’t want me. But please don’t shut me out of your life again.”

“I don’t think I could if I tried,” Geralt says.

“But if you do want to be with me…” Jaskier trails off.

Geralt’s expression softens. He almost looks vulnerable. “You don’t know what it means to live for centuries and never age.”

“So that’s why you don’t want to try this? Because I’m going to get old and wrinkly someday? That’s what facelifts are for, Geralt.”

“That has nothing to do with it. I look exactly how I did hundreds of years ago. I am the same as I was hundreds of years ago. You will grow and change. You’ll be a different person two decades from now. I won’t. You deserve to be with someone who will take that journey with you.”

“Fuck the journey. I want you.” And before Geralt can reply, Jaskier leans forward and kisses him.

It’s different from their last kiss, slower and gentler. Geralt hands come to rest on Jaskier’s hips, his thumbs rubbing slow circles on the skin above the waistband of Jaskier’s jeans. Slowly, as if waiting for Jaskier to bat his hands away, he slides his hands around and grasps Jaskier’s ass. Jaskier gasps into his mouth and Geralt abruptly loosens his grip.

“Oh, no.” Jaskier reaches back to grab the Witcher’s wrists to keep them in place. “That wasn’t a gasp of pain. That was a ‘holy shit the man I’ve been obsessed with for the past six months just grabbed my ass’ gasp. Please don’t stop.”

“So, this is alright?” Geralt’s voice is low in Jaskier’s ear, almost uncertain.

“I don’t think I can possibly convey to you how alright this is, but I’m going to try my best.”

That seems to be all the encouragement Geralt needs, because the Witcher pulls Jaskier against him and kisses him again. Jaskier is glad that Geralt is holding on to him so tightly, because his legs feel a bit wobbly. Geralt has clearly spent a good portion of the last five hundred years perfecting his kissing technique and Jaskier is very, very grateful to be on the receiving end of all that practice. Geralt’s mouth leaves his and trails kisses down Jaskier’s throat to his shoulder.

“Bed,” Geralt says. It isn’t a question. Geralt’s hesitation seems to have been melted away by Jaskier’s open enthusiasm.

Jaskier’s air mattress groans under the sudden weight of the two men. Jaskier has entertained many people of all shapes and sizes on this mattress, but not a single one of them has been a mountain of muscle. Not that Jaskier is complaining as Geralt peels off his shirt and Jaskier gets an eyeful of everything the Witcher has to offer. Well, not everything. Sadly, the leather pants are still on.

“You know, we could have been doing this for months,” Jaskier says, unable to take his eyes off Geralt’s naked chest. “Months. Think of all the time we’ve wasted hunting monsters and defeating evil sorcerers, when we could have been in this bed.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” The smile curling Geralt’s lips softens the words.

Jaskier’s eyes flick downwards. “Only if I’m given something better to do with my mouth.”

For once, Geralt is all too happy to oblige him.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, no cliffhanger! The final chapter is mostly written, so it should be up in the next day or two.  
> Thanks for reading!


	12. Of Fleders and Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier finally gets his man, fleders are fought, and life moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s the final chapter! Thank you to everyone who’s stuck with me as this planned 8 chapter, 30K word fic ballooned into 12 chapters and 60,000 words. It has been so much fun to get back into writing after all these years and everyone’s lovely comments have really encouraged me. You are all the best!

Jaskier’s poor air mattress is never going to recover. It’s completely flattened under them. When Jaskier wakes up , it feels like he’s lying directly on the ground. He rolls over to face Geralt and it squeaks pathetically. He has a feeling that it probably has several tears in it.

“You killed my mattress,” he tells Geralt, without any heat. It’s impossible to actually be annoyed right now.

“Your mattress was a piece of shit.” Geralt presses a kiss against his shoulder.

“But it was my piece of shit. I’ve had it since college. It’s survived a lot.”

“You need a real bed. I’m too old to be fucking on an air mattress.”

“Oh?” Jaskier shoots him a coy look. “You think we’ll be doing that again?”

With a growl, Geralt pulls him close and kisses him. Jaskier melts into the embrace, smiling against the Witcher’s lips. After a night with Geralt, he’s sore and completely drained, but warmer and more content than he can remember being for a long time. He could wake up like this, pressed up against Geralt with the Witcher’s arms wrapped tightly around him, every day.

“So, what changed?” he asks as Geralt kisses his way across Jaskier’s chest.

“Hm?”

“When we met, you acted like I was a giant pain in your ass.”

“You still are.”

Jaskier is too happy to rise to the bait. “So, what happened?”

“You were quiet for a whole two minutes once. It was intoxicating.”

“Hilarious.” Jaskier rolls his eyes.

Geralt is quiet for a moment, watching Jaskier with those yellow eyes. “When I was under the effects of that cursed blade, Stregobor made me dream about you dying over and over again. And when I woke up, I realized you’d become the person I couldn’t survive losing. After I talked to Yenn.”

“You talked to Yennefer?”

“She’s very good at telling me when I’m being an idiot.”

Maybe the sorceress isn’t so bad after all.

“What about you?” Geralt asks.

“I’m always happy to tell you when you’re being an idiot, Geralt.”

Geralt’s chest vibrates with suppressed laughter. “When did things change for you?”

“I don’t know if things ever changed. You saved me from a wyvern, then a bruxa, then a cockatrice. You bought me a new lute. You walk around in leather pants and somehow don’t look ridiculous. You saved me from an assassin twice. It would have been pretty hard not to develop a massive crush on you. I’m pretty sure I was fucked as soon as you cut that wyvern’s head off. Though it was the lute that sealed the deal.”

Geralt smiles softly at him, looking so self-satisfied that Jaskier has to laugh. His laugh is cut off when Geralt kisses him again, sweet and slow. Geralt pulls Jaskier closer against him and Jaskier can feel the evidence of the Witcher’s continued interest pressing against his hip. 

“Again?” Jaskier asks. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Not on this damned mattress.”

“The couch?”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and pulls Jaskier to his feet.

***

When he wakes up on the couch a few hours later, tangled up in blankets, Geralt isn’t next to him. Jaskier sits up and looks around to find Geralt standing in the kitchen, his cell phone pressed to his ear. He’s watching Jaskier with an incredulous expression on his face.

“I remembered how to check my voicemail,” he says.

The message Jaskier left when he was hiding from the doppler comes rushing back to him. _”You’re an asshole, but I love you.”_ Fuck.

Jaskier stands up and tries for his most seductive smile. “I can explain. Want some pancakes?”

***

“You want to go to Calanthe’s place for dinner tomorrow night?” Jaskier asks from where he sits on Roach’s hood, tapping notes on his phone. They’re in the middle of a graveyard in the historical district of Posada. “We’re celebrating Stregobor being dead. Which seems kind of morbid, but since he was the worst, I don’t feel that bad.”

“A bit busy right now,” Geralt grunts as he dodges a lunge from the giant bat-like creature he’s fighting. A fleder, though Jaskier is going to have to come up with another name for the song. Fleder just doesn’t have a ring to it.

Jaskier watches Geralt dodge and swing his sword with renewed interest. He’s pretty sure that any song he writes about this fight will be about how good Geralt looks right now. It’s been almost a week since the first time they slept together and even though they’ve slept together a half a dozen times since then, Jaskier is still struggling to come up with anything more compelling than _“ooh, pretty”_ when he looks at Geralt. He doesn’t think there are words to properly describe what he’s feeling right now.

“I think I liked the bruxa better,” he says. “There’s more poetry in a beautiful dark-haired woman who just happens to turn into a bat. Instead of, you know, just a big, ugly bat.”

“Get in the car, Jaskier.”

“There’s a better view from out here.”

Geralt shoots him an incredulous look. The fleder lunges and Geralt decapitates it with one smooth flick of his sword.

Jaskier hops down from the car. “Oh, good, does this mean we can go home now? I’m starving. Want to stop for pizza on the way?”

“Are you always thinking about food?”

“No, sometimes I’m thinking about sex.” Jaskier looks Geralt up and down. “Like right now.”

Geralt grunts at him and stalks towards the car. While the Witcher’s back is turned, Jaskier takes a selfie with the fleder’s corpse. After a month of his blog being inactive, he’s going to have to go above and beyond to win back his followers. He’s working on a couple new songs, including one about the doppler, that he’s hoping will draw people back in.

“What are you doing?” Geralt demands.

Hurriedly, Jaskier pockets his phone. “Our fans have been deprived of quality Geralt of Rivia content for the last month.”

“And you think a picture of a dead fleder will provide?”

“Well, a selfie with you would be better.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t look at me like that. The people want what they—”

Geralt kisses him. Jaskier is so surprised, he stumbles back a step and almost trips over the dead fleder.

“You can’t just kiss me whenever you want me to shut up, you know,” he says when they finally come up for air.

“Seems to be working so far.”

Jaskier pulls a face at him. “You know, Roach has a pretty roomy backseat…”

“Which is soon going to be filled with dead fleder. Help me clean up the body.”

“But I like these shoes.”

“I’ll buy you a piece of pizza on the way home.”

“Just a piece?”

The Witcher shoots him a look. Jaskier decides that he’s never going to get tired of the Witcher shooting him looks. “If you’re going to keep tagging along on hunts, you may as well make yourself useful.”

“Oh, Geralt, you say the sweetest things.” But Jaskier smiles as he goes to help Geralt.

***

Calanthe couldn’t decide what kind of takeout to get, so they have it all--pizza, noodles, tacos, burgers, and ice cream. The tiny apartment is crammed with people. In addition to Calanthe, Ciri, Geralt, and Jaskier, the sorceresses made their way down from Aretuza. From the way Tissaia looks at the noodles, Jaskier doubts the woman has ever had takeout in her life. Still, it’s good to see them, even Yennefer, who keeps looking between Geralt and Jaskier and smirking.

Jaskier sits on Calanthe’s couch, taco in hand and leg pressed against Geralt’s, as Geralt tells Ciri all about the fight with the fleder the night before. Ciri is listening with rapt attention, which is nice to see. She’s been quieter and jumpier in the week since being kidnapped by Stregobor. It warms Jaskier to see her being herself around Geralt.

When Geralt goes to get himself more pizza, Ciri scoots closer to Jaskier. “So, are you guys a couple yet?” From her bright eyes, Jaskier has a feeling she already knows the answer.

“I wouldn’t call us a couple. But we’re… something.” There hasn’t been any discussion of where Geralt and Jaskier are taking things from here. The closest they’ve come was Jaskier’s frantic attempts to explain that voicemail away as the result of adrenaline and panic. Geralt hasn’t pressed the issue, though Jaskier has a feeling the Witcher didn’t entirely buy it.

“But you’re together?”

“In a way,” Jaskier says coyly, since he can’t think of a family-friendly way of explaining what he and Geralt have been doing for the past week.

“You sound like Geralt, Jaskier, and you’ve only been dating for like a week. Just answer the question.”

Jaskier sighs. “Yes, we’re together.”

Ciri squeals, bounces to her feet, and runs into the kitchen to give Geralt a hug. Geralt, looking bewildered but pleased, pats her on the shoulder.

“Together, huh?” Yennefer settles down into the spot just vacated by Ciri.

Jaskier shrugs. “‘Together’ might be a stretch.”

The sorceress snorts and shakes her head. “I’m glad you two idiots figured things out sometime this century. The pining was becoming unbearable.”

“I was not _pining_.”

“Oh, you absolutely were. But I was talking about Geralt.” Yennefer smiles wickedly.

Jaskier can’t imagine Geralt pining over anything, except maybe Roach’s paint job. “Geralt said you talked to him. Thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” she says. “If left to his own devices, he wouldn’t have realized his feelings until you were half-dead of old age and then I never would have heard the end of it.”

Jaskier winces a little at that. “Well, thanks anyway.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re on your own from here.”

There’s an awkward silence, which Jaskier breaks by clearing his throat. “So, you and Triss?”

Yennefer’s eyes flick to Triss, who has joined Ciri and Geralt in the kitchen. “What about us?”

“Are you two...you know.”

She gives him a narrow-eyed look. “No.”

“Do you want to be?”

“Jaskier, if you’re trying to bond with me, please don’t.”

Jaskier grins. “You helped Geralt and me. I’m just trying to help you. You’re a badass sorceress. You can’t be afraid of making a move, can you?”

“Jaskier?”

“Yes?”

Yennefer ducks her head close to his and lowers her voice. “Geralt can protect you from all kinds of things that go bump in the night. He can protect you from amateurs like Stregobor. He can even protect you from other Witchers. But he wouldn’t be able to protect you from me, so don’t test me.”

Before Jaskier can think up a witty reply, she saunters away to join Sabrina and Tissaia, leaving him speechless. So much for their newfound quasi-respect.

He looks around. Sabrina, Tissaia, and Yennefer are probably chatting about sorceressy things and Triss, Geralt, and Ciri are still deep in conversation in the kitchen, but he doesn’t see Calanthe anywhere. His eyes fall on movement on the balcony and he sees the outline of Calanthe standing out there in the dark. He goes to join her, quietly pulling the door closed behind him.

“You know, you got enough food to feed us all for a week,” he says. “You might as well be inside enjoying it.”

“I just needed a couple of minutes.” She doesn’t look at him; she’s surveying the meager view of the Posada skyline their apartment affords. Not that Posada has much of a skyline.

They’re both silent for a bit, watching the quiet street below. Finally, Calanthe speaks. “You know, I hated Posada when I first moved here. I’d lived in Novigrad before and New Cintra before that and Posada seemed like such a sad, dirty little city. But it’s been twenty years since I first moved here and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. It’s been a good place to raise Ciri. And the neighbors were better than I expected.”

A pit forms in Jaskier’s stomach. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Calanthe hesitates, then nods. “We have to.”

“But Stregobor is gone.”

“And we might not think that he told anyone about Ciri, but we can’t be sure. At least one of his apprentices escaped and there’s no telling what they know. We can’t afford to have a repeat of last week.”

Jaskier briefly fantasizes about watching Stregobor die all over again. “So where are you going to go?”

“You know I can’t tell you that. It’s safer for you if you don’t know.”

Objectively, Jaskier understands that, but it’s still like a punch in the gut. If he doesn’t know where they are, he won’t be able to come visit. There will be no more movie nights, no more driving Ciri to school, no more watching Geralt train her. “Does Ciri know?”

“Of course. That’s why she’s been down in the dumps all week. She doesn’t want to go, especially now that she’s finally started to make more friends at school, but we sat down with Tissaia and we all agreed that it’s best for Calanthe and Cirilla Ryan to die.”

“Die?”

“Not actually die.” Calanthe smiles sadly. “This won’t be the first time I’ve faked my death. I’ve lost count, actually. We were hoping to leave Mousesack with you, if that’s okay. He doesn’t do well on car rides. A life on the run isn’t for him.”

“Of course.” His throat aches from the effort of not crying.

“I really am sorry about the assassin,” she says. “I never meant to do anything to cause you pain. And Geralt is a good man. He’s good to you and to Ciri. I should have given him a chance.”

“It’s okay. Well, maybe not okay. But I forgive you. If Geralt can manage to let bygones be bygones, then so can I.” Jaskier swallows. “You’ve been a really good friend, Calanthe. When I moved in here, I was just an aimless, confused kid. You and Ciri have been the closest thing to a family I’ve ever had.”

“Come here.” Calanthe is not the hugging type, but she pulls Jaskier into a hug. Jaskier leans his forehead on top of her head and closes his eyes.

“You’ll take care of him?” Calanthe asks.

For a moment, Jaskier thinks she’s talking to him, but then a deep voice behind him answers, “Always.”

Jaskier looks around to see Geralt and Ciri standing in the doorway. Ciri has tears streaking down her face.

“I’m sorry.” She throws her arms around Jaskier’s waist. “I wanted to tell you, but we decided to wait until everything was set in stone.”

“When are you going?” Jaskier squeezes her against him with one arm, the other one still around Calanthe.

“Tomorrow,” Calanthe says.

“I guess that explains the truly astronomical amount of takeout.”

“That was all Ciri. She keeps calling it our last meal, like there won’t be pizza and noodles wherever we’re going.”

“They won’t be as good,” Ciri says, sniffling.

Jaskier’s gaze meets Geralt’s over Ciri’s head. Had they just met, Jaskier probably would have considered Geralt’s expression impassive. But he knows Geralt well enough now to see the sadness in the Witcher’s eyes. Geralt is probably going to miss Ciri as much as Jaskier will.

“You’ll need to keep up your training on your own,” Geralt tells Ciri gruffly. “You’re a quick study, but you’ll forget just as quickly without regular practice.”

“I never learned how to throw knives properly,” Ciri says.

“Next time I see you, we’ll have something to work on.” Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile. “I’ll leave you three alone for a bit.”

Jaskier, Calanthe, and Ciri huddle on the balcony for a long time after Geralt goes inside, not speaking and not letting each other go.

***

Ciri has never imagined faking her own death, exactly, but if she had, she probably would have imagined a fiery explosion or a hail of bullets. The reality is almost anticlimactic. Calanthe and Ciri are driving Ciri home from school (the fact that she had to go to school that day still rankles Ciri) when Calanthe swerves to avoid some debris in the road. Their car plunges off the bridge into the river below. Their bodies will never be found, which isn’t unusual. There are scavengers in the river; bodies of people who fall in are rarely found.

“What now?” Ciri asks from the riverbank, watching Calanthe’s car sink into its watery grave. The hood of her sweatshirt is pulled up to hide her blond hair. Calanthe has told her that she can dye her hair whatever color she wants after this; Ciri’s pale blond hair is too distinctive. Ciri is thinking pink, though purple sounds fun too.

“Honestly?” Calanthe shakes her head. “I’m not sure. I still have contacts from United Continent who I’ll get in touch with. They can help flesh out our new identities.”

“Gran—”

“Aunt Cal. Remember, I’m your aunt now. You should get used to thinking of me as your aunt before we get wherever we’re going.”

Not much is set in stone, except for their new names: Callista and Elena Rhines. Ciri keeps turning over her new name in her head. What kind of person will Elena Rhines be? What will she like? What friends will she make? Will she ever learn how to throw a knife? “Do you think they’ll be okay, Aunt Cal?” she asks quietly.

“They’ll be safer without us.”

Ciri remembers Jaskier’s agonized face as Stregobor tortured him and can’t argue with that. “Do you think we’ll see them again?”

“Of course we will, sweetheart.”

A portal opens up next to them and Yennefer steps through. Her expression is uncharacteristically gentle. “Are you two ready?”

Ciri looks at her grandmother--no, her aunt-- and then at the place where the car is now fully submerged. She holds out her hand to Yennefer. “Let’s go.”

***

There are a surprising amount of people at the memorial service: Calanthe’s coworkers, their neighbors, Ciri’s friends from school and their families, Ciri’s teachers, several people Jaskier suspects are just there for the finger sandwiches. To Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt has traded in his leather pants for an honest to gods suit and tie. It seems wrong to ogle Geralt at his best friends’ funeral, even if said best friends aren’t actually dead, so Jaskier keeps his eyes forward as much as possible. 

There’s a display of photos of Calanthe and Ciri. Jaskier smiles at a photo of a toddler Ciri, her face smeared with chocolate, sitting on her mother’s lap. Pavetta looks so much like Ciri that it hurts to look at her. Jaskier studies the photos until his eyes fall on one of him with Calanthe and Ciri. It’s from the summer before, when the three of them went kayaking. Jaskier’s hair is wet from an unexpected tumble into the water, but he’s laughing with his arms around Calanthe and Ciri’s shoulders. Looking at their happy faces makes his heart hurt.

“This was only taken a couple of weeks before I met you,” he tells Geralt.

“You look happy.”

“I was. It was a great day. I don’t know if I could ever go kayaking now that I know more about the things that live in rivers.”

“Most of the truly dangerous water monsters prefer standing water.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” Carefully, Jaskier takes the picture off the table and pockets it.

“Are you ready to go?”

Jaskier looks around at the red eyes and runny noses surrounding him. He feels strangely out of place here. He’s mourning Ciri and Calanthe, obviously, but he knows that they’re somewhere out there, safe and alive, and that he’ll see them again. It might be years from now, but he knows their paths will cross someday. “Yeah, let’s go.”

They leave the funeral home and step out into the blazing spring sunlight.

“I got a call this morning,” Geralt says. “There was another fleder sighting in the same graveyard as last week. There might be a nest that we missed. I’m going back tonight.”

“Sounds wildly exciting.”

“If you’d like to film the fight, you can.”

Jaskier stops dead in his tracks. “Geralt, I’ve been bugging you to let me film your battles for months.”

“Well aware. It will just be this once. And all the normal rules will apply. If things get dangerous, you get in the car and hide.”

“Is this all to cheer me up?”

Geralt doesn’t reply, which is confirmation enough.

“You really are just an enormous muscular marshmallow.” Jaskier slips his arms around Geralt.

“Do you ever think about things before you say them?”

“I try not to, actually.”

The corners of Geralt’s lips curl upwards and he tilts his head to the side. “So, are you coming or not?”

“Of course.” Jaskier brushes a soft kiss over the Witcher’s lips. He can’t resist the head tilt. Or the smile. Or really, anything about Geralt. “Lead the way. Those poor fleders won’t know what hit them.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think this is the closest thing to fluff that I’m capable of. But don’t worry, Ciri and Calanthe will be back later in the series! I have a couple more fics in this universe planned: at least one or two monster of the week one-shots and a Yennefer and Jaskier-centric fic. I’m also outlining for two more AUs right now, so keep an eye out for those!
> 
> Thank you again for all the kind comments and encouragement. I’m so glad you all enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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